


Wars of Attraction

by Santillatron



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Banter, Humour, Lots of Idiocy, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sassy Aziraphale (Good Omens), Smidge Of Angst, Smitten Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28580166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: Aziraphale hates having to entertain his cousin Gabriel when he's over from America, but a chance meeting on the tube improves his mood dramatically.Such a shame that in a city as busy as London he's unlikely to ever run into the fascinating man again.Certainly not twice.Any more than that would be absurd...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 223
Kudos: 352
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be short and silly, and then they got ideas. 
> 
> It's all written, and I plan to post the next three chapters in the next three days.

Aziraphale bustled onto the train. It was busy, with a few standing, but there seemed to be one seat left in the middle of the carriage. Unfortunately that seemed to be because the occupant of the seat to the right of it had sprawled himself out half over the empty seat and nobody had been brave enough to ask him to move. 

It wasn’t hard to see why. Dressed all in black with hair like a smouldering bonfire, he exuded a vague air of malevolence. A situation not helped by the black snakeskin boots, facial tattoo, or his dark, round sunglasses. And who on Earth wears sunglasses at night on the tube?!

Well Aziraphale wasn’t intimidated. What he was, was tired, and not relishing the idea of standing pressed up against other passengers. So he walked straight up to the spare seat, put a flat hand on the outside of the encroaching knee, pushed it gently, but firmly, to one side and sat down. He laid his hands neatly in his lap and faced forwards, looking over the horrified expressions of the other passengers at the distorted reflection in the dark square of window opposite. 

The carriage was very quiet. People didn’t talk to each other on the tube anyway, but it felt like they were all holding their breath at this point. Aziraphale could see the glances out of the corner of his eye. The raising of newspapers and the slight shuffle as bodies moved away from what was surely about to beco-

“D’you often go around feeling up other men’s legs?” Came a voice from his left. The voice was smooth, a slight drawl to it, with a definite suggestion of irritation in the tone and a harshness to the sibilants. 

Aziraphale turned his head and gave the man his brightest smile. 

“Oh yes! Although I must admit I usually get their name first. It makes it much less awkward, come the morning.”

The dark sunglasses completely obscured the man’s eyes, but his surprise was evident from the way his jaw dropped slightly, and, goodness, now Aziraphale had a chance to look at his face he turned out to be rather inconveniently handsome. Strong features, an angular nose, razor sharp cheekbones, and thin lips, but they suited his face. The tattoo sat in front of his ear, a dark squiggle that Aziraphale could see in his peripheral. Arching eyebrows just peeked out over the top of the man’s sunglasses where they’d raised in shock. 

In the void left by the lack of verbal response, Aziraphale pressed home his advantage. 

“Do you come here often?” 

There was a snort from somewhere further down the carriage but Aziraphale ignored it in favour of holding as close as he could hope to get to eye contact through the impenetrable dark circles of glass. 

“Not if I can avoid it. Get all sorts of weirdos down here. Car’s being repaired.”

Aziraphale decided to ignore the ‘weirdos’ comment entirely, seeing as it was coming from someone who couldn't be considered ordinary even in poor light.

“Oh, I see. Some sort of sporty little number I expect?” He looked down at the man’s suit. Well, mostly at his suit because Aziraphale wasn’t going to pass up on the opportunity to enjoy the view while he was there. The man was slender, his torso curled slightly in the seat, with long legs, suggesting he was quite tall. Anyway. Suit. Expensive fabric, close cut and well fitting. The coat over the top was much of the same. This man had money. “BMW? Audi? No... Porsche!”

Well that earned him a smirk that sat exceedingly well on those thin lips. Aziraphale realised he’d been watching his mouth. There was no doubt that this man was attractive, and, rather intriguingly, hadn’t recoiled from Aziraphale’s advances. 

“Classic Bentley, actually.” The man said, exaggerating every consonant with a satisfied expression. It seemed to draw an unreasonable amount of attention to the movement of his rather agile tongue. 

Aziraphale allowed his delight to spill onto his face. “Well! I suppose I can let you off then.”

“How generous of you.” The man drawled. 

Before Aziraphale could respond, the train slowed as it pulled into the station and the doors hissed open. They both stood up. Aziraphale was pleased to note that the man was, indeed, quite tall. Not too tall, but tall enough that he had to stoop slightly in the low height of the tube carriage.

“Walking me to the door now? How very chivalrous of you.” The man teased. 

“Simply making sure you don’t get lost, dear boy. These tube stations can be rather confusing to the uninitiated.” Aziraphale replied, extending an arm towards the door in invitation. “After you.”

As the man moved past him Aziraphale caught his scent. A hint of cinnamon? Something spicy certainly. A peppery high note, and a sweet base. Perhaps vanilla? An intriguing combination. 

The rest of the tube passengers watched them disembark, still trading retorts all the way off the platform and down the tunnel. 

As the tube pulled away again you’d have expected some glances between the remaining passengers perhaps, the odd raised eyebrow at what they’d just witnessed, but this was London Underground so everyone’s gaze turned resolutely back to the floor. 

The press of bodies on the platform and, indeed, all the way up to street level meant the two men were forced to remain in each other’s space, and Aziraphale could indulge himself on the view of this enigmatic man. Aziraphale had found him quite attractive sat down, but there was something about the way the man moved that had Aziraphale unable to look away. He was quite the conundrum. For a man with such a carefully crafted image of nonchalance and spite, there were an awful lot of smiles sneaking in around his retorts. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he’d think this man was enjoying their little back and forth. Perhaps even flirting. 

But presently they arrived at the barriers, and all too soon were out in the open air again. 

“Well, I hope your car is fixed quickly, my dear, and you needn’t scourge the dark depths of the London Underground with your presence too much longer.” Aziraphale said, watching the way the man straightened up, stretching, only to promptly slouch back down again. He was a few inches taller than Aziraphale, but you’d never know it from the way he stood. 

Another little quirk of those thin lips, an almost smile that vanished as soon as it arrived. Aziraphale was rather aware of just how much he watched those lips in the absence of proper eye contact. 

“‘S not that dark with you down there.” The man responded, before tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers, turning on his heel and striding off into the night. 

Well. 

Now then. 

That was _definitely_ flirting. 

Aziraphale watched the man disappear into the crowd, his inability to coordinate his body appropriately on a seat apparently extending to walking as well. His gait was most unusual, but it did have a certain appeal in the sway of his hi-

“Oh bother.” Aziraphale said to himself. He’d been so caught up in the unexpected compliment he’d let the man get away with the final word. Aziraphale could see with a surprising amount of clarity the smirk he must be wearing as he sauntered off down the street. 

Oh well. London was a big city, the chances of seeing him again were minute. Not that he wanted to, mind you. He didn't need to start messing around with men like that at his age. 

Still… 

* * *

Crowley was indeed smirking as he sauntered away. He’d expected to hate the tube, but if he was going to encounter someone like that every time he ventured down there then he might just start taking it more often. 

He checked his watch. Hastur and Ligur would probably already be in the bar, and no doubt try and cajole him into catching up if they got too many drinks ahead of him. 

Cutting through a few alleys and hopping one, low fence, he made it to the Cork and Bottle without too much delay. Tripping lightly down the metal spiral staircase, he found them huddled in a corner, eyeing the cheese counter warily. 

“I hate it when you pick the pub.” Hastur grumbled by way of a greeting. 

“Yeah. Never any decent beer.” Ligur agreed. 

“Well it’s a wine bar, guys, what did you expect?” Crowley replied, dumping his coat on the chair and heading to said bar. Returning with a large glass of Nero D’Avola, he flopped down into the chair, running a hand through his short, tousled hair. 

“How’s the motor?” Ligur asked, a barely contained smirk on his face.

Crowley hissed in response, curling his top lip as he lifted his wine to his mouth. 

Hastur laughed. It was not a nice sound. “Does that mean you’re still slumming it on the tube with the plebs?” 

Crowley thought about the man from the tube, all pale hair and twinkling blue eyes and nothing plebeian whatsoever. He didn’t realise how much his mind had drifted until he saw the look Ligur was giving him. 

“Wot?” He scowled. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile at the mention of public transport.” Ligur said. 

“Oh fuck off!” Crowley frowned at him, trying not to think about how much more enjoyable the banter with the man on the tube had been, compared to the limited repertoire these two cretins had at their disposal. 

* * *

Aziraphale descended carefully down the cast iron, spiral staircase, and into the cellar that housed the wine bar. His cousin, Gabriel, had chosen the location, and, while it was a tad too fashionable for his usual tastes, it did at least have the potential for a decent drink. As he stepped off the bottom step, he spied the cheese counter and decided that perhaps he could give the bar a fair chance. 

Before he’d had a chance to look around any further, he heard the booming noise of Gabriel’s voice calling to him through the bar. Suppressing a sigh, he turned towards the sound. 

* * *

Crowley’s train of thought was derailed by a loud, brash voice. He glanced over to the noise on instinct to see a city boy in a grey suit waving across the bar. American, judging by the artificially perfect smile and complete disregard for local social etiquette. Crowley grimaced and turned back to educating Hastur on why pairing wine with food mattered. He wasn’t really sure why he was bothering. 

* * *

Aziraphale waved an acknowledgment at Gabriel, then turned to the bar. His normal preferences erred towards a nice, bold red, but prior experience with Gabriel and his inability to adjust his movements to accommodate smaller spaces meant that for the sake of his suit, he came away with a glass of sweet Riesling. A large one. By the time he joined his cousin, he’d almost managed to put the smirking redhead from the train out of his mind completely. Taking his seat, he glanced wistfully back at the cheese counter. Another time, perhaps. 

After twenty minutes of listening to Gabriel disparage London and, indeed, most of England in general, Aziraphale had had enough. He had agreed to show his American cousin around while he was in town on business, but he hadn’t anticipated having to endure quite such a dismissive attitude. Excusing himself with a need to make use of the facilities, Aziraphale strode towards the rear of the bar in an attempt to find some respite, and perhaps some patience while he was at it. 

He was less than pleased, then, to trip on a careless foot left sticking out into the narrow gap between the tables. Pitching forward, it was only the owner of said foot flinging an arm out that stopped him from crashing rather inelegantly to the floor. 

He felt entirely justified in his anger as he turned to the owner of the arm that had so recently let go of his torso, and was ready to berate them wholeheartedly when he registered the red hair, sunglasses, and bewitching smirk that he’d been trying to put out of his mind. He rallied rather magnificently, in his opinion. 

“I might have known. A rather unconventional approach to sweeping someone off their feet, my dear, but I suppose we were never going to afford you any points for style, were we?” He said, looking him over as he sat, no, _sprawled,_ in the seat with little regard for the amount of space he took up. Aziraphale hated to admit to himself just how alluring he found it. 

The man barked out a surprised laugh, slinging his arm over the back of his chair as he turned towards Aziraphale. 

“And I suppose you are an expert in style are you?” The man in many shades of black replied, gesturing at Aziraphale’s clothing with a lazy flick of his wrist. “With your cutting edge waistcoat and,” he reached up, grinning, and flicked Aziraphale’s bow tie, “is that _tartan_?”

Aziraphale didn’t wish to dwell on the way his heart fluttered at the proximity of that elegant hand to his neck. 

“I’ll have you know tartan is very stylish. Sadly, not everyone can pull it off.” He retorted, giving Crowley a pitying look as his hands came up to straighten the bow tie. He swiftly continued on his way, hoping it would hide his blush. If this man thought Aziraphale would…

* * *

“I’ll pull it off you any time you like!” Crowley called after him, but he got no response. Shame. He had a niggling feeling that he might have offended the bloke, but he squashed it down. Crowley hadn’t cared about offending people up to this point in his life, and saw no reason to start now. 

He turned back to Hastur and Ligur, who were giving him a curious, distrustful look. 

“What?!” He snapped, and they seemed to drop it, even if they did share a glance that Crowley was in no mood to follow up. 

Irritatingly the man managed to sneak past him as he was ordering a new round at the bar so he missed the chance to provoke him again. Because he was going to provoke him, and not, say, check that the man still looked at him with that light in his eyes. 

Glancing around he felt a surge of something he wouldn’t name to see him sat with the loud American. He had a brief lurching thought that the American might be his boyfriend, but the man hadn’t behaved as if he was involved with someone, and Crowley moved swiftly on from that bewildering reaction. 

Several more glances confirmed that the tube man was looking at the cheeses with barely concealed wistfulness. Wist? Looked like he didn’t want to admit he wanted some. Crowley spied an opportunity. 

Hastur was in the middle of saying something. Complaining about a dripping ceiling or something equally uninteresting. Why he was friends with these two he had no idea, but he got up and walked back to the counter. 

“Hi. What’s your smelliest cheese?”

* * *

Aziraphale looked up as the waitress placed the plate down in front of him. 

“I’m sorry but there must be some mistake, I haven’t ordered anything…” Aziraphale apologised, trying not to catch his cousin’s expression, which would no doubt be a sneer. 

“Complements of your friend, sir.” She said, before walking back to the bar. 

One waft of the smell coming from the plate, and Aziraphale could guess who this ‘friend’ was. Well. More fool him, because as far as Aziraphale was concerned, Stinking Bishop was a much maligned delicacy. 

Ignoring Gabriel’s philistine reaction, Aziraphale expertly cut a sliver of the cheese and flipped it onto a slice of the accompanying bread, garnishing it with a little of the pear chutney. He looked up to check the redhead was watching (although who could really tell seeing as he was still wearing those ridiculous sunglasses), brought the bread up to his mouth, and took a bite. 

* * *

Crowley watched the plate go over to the table. He observed the confusion with mounting glee. When only one of the occupants reacted the way he’d hoped, he was begrudgingly impressed. Not with the American, he was a tasteless void as far as Crowley was concerned, even if he was a rather handsome one in a manufactured sort of way.

But then his tartan-bedecked adversary actually ate some. If you could call that eating. It was _obscene._ Crowley couldn’t drag his eyes from the way the man opened his mouth and wrapped distractingly full, pink lips around the slice, holding it carefully in place and sinking his teeth decadently into it. Crowley just about caught the way his eyelids fluttered closed, his head tilting slightly as he relished that first burst of flavour. His face was the very epitome of bliss and Crowley’s mouth was suddenly very dry. As he sipped his wine he found himself wondering if there was anything else he could do to get him to make that expression. 

Crowley’s eyes flicked briefly to the American, but he was so busy talking about something he clearly thought important ( _bet it’s himself,_ Crowley thought) that he hadn’t noticed the frankly quite erotic display his companion was putting on. In fact, nobody else in the bar seemed to be seeing it. It seemed it was a private show, just for Crowley. He took a bigger sip of his wine, shuffling in his seat. 

Mouthful finished, a tongue appeared, chasing the remnants of what was probably chutney, and Crowley still couldn’t look away. Licking his own lips, he thought about loosening his tie when the man opened his eyes, still looking at him. Tilting his head slightly Crowley’s way and raising one eyebrow, he held the bread out as if toasting him, before turning back to his American companion and proceeding to eat the rest in a manner only marginally more suitable for such a public place. 

Crowley still couldn’t take his eyes off of him. The man was radiating smugness, a smile on his face that had been missing since he sat down. Ligur was going on about something to do with his right arm in his periphery. Someone’s right arm anyway. But Crowley wasn’t really hearing him. 

And then, to add insult to injury, tube man glanced back his way, just catching Crowley’s gaze out of the corner of his eye, and winked. 

Crowley realised he was hopelessly outmatched. He had looked at the stiff demeanour, the fussy sartorial choices, and thought him easy prey. But it turned out this man was a complete bastard underneath that mild looking exterior. 

_Touché_ Crowley thought as he sat back and necked the last of his wine in a manner that it really didn’t deserve. _Tou-fucking-ché._

* * *

Aziraphale was mildly concerned he had gone too far when he opened his eyes and saw the look on the other man’s face. His lips were parted, eyebrows slightly raised over the sunglasses that he still persisted in wearing, and he was either a tad too warm or he was blushing quite heavily. At least it had brought some colour to his otherwise pale face. 

When he was still staring at him a minute or two later, Aziraphale couldn’t help himself but wink. For some reason it seemed to startle him, and the man turned back to his own table. 

Finishing the cheese despite Gabriel’s pointed looks at him and his waistline, Aziraphale checked his pocket watch. 

“Goodness! We’d better get going. It wouldn’t do to be late to Hamlet.” Aziraphale said, standing. The man hadn’t looked back at him since he’d winked and was gone from the table at the moment, so Aziraphale was forced to leave without any form of farewell. He felt a little uneasy about leaving without saying anything, as he stepped back onto the spiral staircase to return to the street. Their little back and forth had been rather fun, and it felt rude to vanish like this, but perhaps he had taken it a little too far and scared him off. Aziraphale tried not to feel too disappointed. 

* * *

Crowley came back from the gents to find the fussy bastard with the twinkling blue eyes had gone. He tried not to take it personally, but it still stung. It was a full twenty minutes before he checked his watch and realised they were late. 

“Fuck, gotta go lads, we’re late!” He said, downing the last of his drink again before standing up and swinging his coat on. Hastur and Ligur followed at a more leisurely pace. 

As they were shown to their theatre box by torchlight, Crowley remembered why he was friends with these two. Working in a place like this, even the bowels of the backstage area, held benefits. One of which was knowing if a box had been left unsold, and could be used by staff for a greatly reduced rate. Crowley couldn’t remember what they were actually seeing. He knew it was Shakespeare, but beyond that he hasn’t really paid attention. Shakespeare here was always worth seeing. 

As he tuned in to the action down on the stage he groaned slightly. 

It was one of the gloomy ones. Still… he had a head full of broad shoulders, pink lips, and twinkling blue eyes to lighten his mood if he got too bogged down by it all.

He settled back in his chair to watch. Shakespeare was a filthy old sod so it would only be a matter of time before they came across the first dirty joke. 

* * *

Aziraphale’s eye was caught by the flash of the torch as the occupants of the box opposite turned up late. He huffed to himself. Some people had no respect for the theatre. Being late to a play was distracting for the actors, and just plain rude. 

So he wasn’t entirely unsurprised to see a familiar shock of red hair. A little curious at the fact that they had managed to run into each other three times in one night, but not surprised that the man would be the sort to turn up late to Hamlet. Although he supposed it counted for something that he was here at all. 

Aziraphale tried to watch the play. Hamlet was a serious production, and required focus. Gabriel had, of course, brought snacks in with him, which he was happily munching through, and it was partly down to this that Aziraphale had opted for a box himself. It not only reduced the complaints when Gabriel asked the inevitable questions as he struggled to keep up with the language and the plot, but it also meant Aziraphale didn’t have to be squashed into a small seat and have to get too close to his cousin. He was sure Gabriel was highly regarded back home, but Aziraphale found him a bit much, frankly. 

Glancing back across the theatre, Aziraphale noticed the snakeskin boots up on the railing along the edge of the box. He marvelled at just how long the legs sticking out of them were, letting his eyes wander up the considerable length of the man. He’d finally taken off his sunglasses, but from this distance Aziraphale couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, and he found himself quite curious to find out. 

* * *

Crowley only lasted a few minutes before he began to lose his focus. He carried on listening to the dialogue, but he let his gaze wander around at the audience. They were barely visible in the gloom, but he could make out the vague groups, the points where people sat slightly closer to one side than the other. He liked watching people, they fascinated him. 

The theatre itself had stalls at the bottom, a balcony they they dubbed ‘the royal circle’ in the middle, and an upper circle up by the ceiling. Hastur called it ‘the gods’ and Crowley could see why. It was very high. To either side there were several boxes, no doubt filled with poncy theatre buffs too snooty to sit with the great unwashed masses. Crowley mentally catalogued himself as neither, being, as he was, an interloper. A snake in the grass amongst all these box dwellers, whilst never conforming enough to flow with the general crowds. 

In the box directly opposite he caught sight of platinum curls. What were the bloody chances that _he_ was sat across the theatre from him? London was a bloody massive place, full of all sorts of things to do, and yet there he was, pale clothes almost glowing in the low lighting. Great. Now he was going to be thoroughly distracted from the play he’d actually come to see. Well. Paid to see, anyway, even if it was a fraction of the usual price.

Crowley’s gaze kept returning to the bright beacon on the other side of the crowds, wondering how it was that they seemed to go to the same places and yet he’d never seen him before. Surely he would have noticed a man like that? Or would he? Would he have looked at him twice if he hadn’t known what devious wit was hidden beneath those fastidious layers? 

He was slightly ashamed to admit, probably not. Good job blondy was smarter than him, then. 

Speaking of blondy, he was still with that obnoxious American who was stuffing something into his face and kept leaning in to talk to him. Even from here Crowley could tell it was getting annoying. Then blondy glanced his way and he looked away sharply. Wishing he’d kept his sunglasses on so he could sneak a peek, he suddenly felt rather exposed. Should he acknowledge him? Wave? What was the protocol once you’d watched someone make borderline pornographic faces over food? Food you’d bought them as well… Crowley tried not to think about that detail too much. That was definitely something to mull over later. In private. 

The two men in the opposite box had their heads together and it seemed blondy was explaining something to the American. Bloody hell he had the patience of a saint. Crowley would have given up on the idiot by now, Hamlet really wasn’t that hard to understand. Prince has some lingering daddy issues and hates his new step dad, everybody dies in the fallout.

The door to the box opposite opened, and for a heart stopping moment the dim light from the hallway caught the platinum curls just right to make them glow. 

No. Not a saint. An angel. A beautiful, bastard angel. 

Something clicked inside Crowley. Some fundamental shift happened, and he wasn’t sure if it was head or heart or even loins related, but whatever it was it momentarily took his breath away. He was still staring as the angel accepted a glass of wine from the waiter that had stepped through the opened door, looked his way, and raised his drink at him before taking a sip. Crowley made a ridiculous hand gesture that had started as a wave and tried to become a sort of salute thing half way through. Either way it was a mess. Why was everything so hard around this man? 

* * *

Aziraphale could tell he was being watched. He raised his glass in a toast, and the man (Aziraphale refused to think of him as a gentleman) in black made some complicated hand gesture back. Charming and confusing at the same time, but that seemed to encapsulate the whole of their interactions so far. Unusually charming, and charmingly unusual. Nevertheless, Aziraphale was relieved to see he hadn’t been completely scared off. He’d been rather dreading babysitting Gabriel, but this elegant and mischievous man had made it a far more entertaining evening than he could ever have hoped for. 

Despite the man’s presence Aziraphale really did try to focus on the play, but he knew Hamlet inside and out by now. The lead playing Hamlet was rather good, but he still kept finding himself glancing across the theatre to the opposite box. He could barely see the man in the darkness, his black suit blending into the shadows behind him, but there was a suggestion of limbs sprawled in ever more perplexing configurations as he clearly struggled to sit still. At one point he leant forward, resting his chin on the railing, and Aziraphale had a clearer view of his face and that rakish bit of hair that flopped down over his forehead. 

Unfortunately that just meant he also saw as the man abruptly pulled a silly face, complete with what looked like a very long tongue sticking out, and Aziraphale inhaled his mouthful of wine in surprise. Not too disastrous in itself, but coughing in the middle of a very important and serious speech earned him a few angry glances. Not to mention Gabriel’s frankly ridiculous overreaction. 

Airways cleared, and delighted that their little game was apparently still very much on, Aziraphale opened up the theatre’s app and navigated to the catering section. 

* * *

Crowley was feeling smug. He hadn’t intended on having the angelic man make quite such a scene and watching the barely contained outrage as his American companion had leant back and slapped him soundly on the back had been an unexpected bonus. 

But now he was committing quite the faux pas by looking at his phone rather than the stage. His face lit up, Crowley could just about see what could be his tongue sticking out slightly as he concentrated on whatever was so important that it couldn’t wait until the interval. 

Oh no. He’d put the phone away and was looking smug. That wasn’t a good sign. Shit, the man had just _wiggled_ in his seat, he was so gleeful. Crowley was sure he should not be finding that as cute as he did. 

A few minutes later and the door to Crowley’s box opened. A waiter came in with a large box of… popcorn? Really? Was all that wiggling over popcorn? 

Hastur and Ligur looked thoroughly confused, so Crowley just took the red and white striped box from the outstretched hand. It appeared it had been already paid for as the waiter vanished again just as quietly. 

One look across the theatre confirmed his suspicions. Angel was openly watching him. He tilted his head slightly, kicked his feet back up onto the railing, settled back in his seat and nonchalantly threw a couple of pieces of popcorn in his mouth, eyes on the stage. 

To his eternal gratitude the darkness hid the way his eyes went wide as the reason for Angel’s smugness became apparent. When did they start putting chili on popcorn?! 

He was certainly surprised, but pleasantly so. Crowley loved spicy food. Once he was over the initial shock of the heat, he raced through the box of popcorn, tipping the last dregs into his mouth just before the curtain went down for the interval. He’d even let Hastur and Ligur have a bit, just to watch their faces as the spice kicked in on their tongues. 

Oh he was going to have to find Angel and let him know just how much his little plan had backfired. He was up and half way out of the door as the interval lights came on.

“Need a waz.” He called at Hastur and Ligur, shoving his sunglasses on and heading straight for the bar. A cursory sweep over the heads in front of him ended with a distinct lack of pale curls, so he turned to the bar to get himself a drink. 

“I think a rational man would start to question whether you are following me, at this point.” He heard behind him after a few moments.

Forcing the smile off his face, Crowley turned around. It wouldn’t do to give his hand away too soon. 

“Good thing you don’t appear to be a rational man then.” Crowley bit back the ‘Angel’ just in time, wondering when the thought had turned into a nickname. “Else why the fuck would you keep talking to me?” 

A flash of that brilliant smile, and a zing of something hot and fizzy raced down Crowley’s spine. He bristled at it. 

“Well, my dear, you persist in getting in my way and it would be rude to just push past you to get to the bar. Ergo, I am once again forced to engage you in what you seem to think passes for conversation.” 

Crowley put a hand to his chest in mock offence. 

“Ouch! But tell me, how can I be following you, if I’m in front of you all the time? Surely that would suggest you are the one following me?” Crowley smirked, resting his weight down into one hip and leaning against the bar. He made just enough space for the man to stand next to him, but it would require him to step very close to Crowley. For some reason, that had Crowley’s heart racing slightly. He didn’t dwell on it. 

“Well by that logic, if I were following you, I wouldn’t be trying to get past you all the time, would I?” Angel replied, stepping calmly into the space and looking him straight in the eye. 

Oh shit he even smelled divine. Crowley wasn’t big on flavours, but it was sweet and earthy at the same time. It made him think of cake and tea. 

Crowley couldn’t help but notice the way those blue eyes shone. It was even better close up. Fuck, Angel was smart as well as gorgeous. There was a subversive energy to the way he looked so damn soft, so mild and pleasant, and then broke out this stone cold bastard attitude that Crowley could really appreciate. So prim and proper, but with a razor sharp core of solid steel. This man had a sword for a spine. Crowley really wanted to see what happened if he got properly fired up about something. Preferably from the sidelines. He wasn’t sure he could measure up to an angel in full smiting mode. 

Sadly the bell rang for the end of the interval before Crowley could come up with anything clever enough that he was willing to say. Damn it, he cared what Angel thought of him now, and that was never good when you were trying to match someone in a battle of wits. Crowley knew how to irritate and insult, how to get under someone’s skin and leave them seething for the rest of the day. But something about this man left him feeling off kilter and vulnerable and he wasn’t sure he liked the way he wanted more of it. 

“Blast. I’d better get back to Gabriel before he gets bored and causes a scene.” The man complained. 

“That your date?” Crowley blurted out without thinking. 

Angel looked almost as shocked as Crowley felt at hearing himself ask that. “Heavens, no! It’s worse than that. Gabriel is my cousin, over from America. All the obligations with no possibility of a break up.” He flashed Crowley a strained smile. 

Crowley laughed aloud at that, feeling very light all of a sudden. “Oh I’m sure if you brought someone like me home he’d disown you pretty bloody fast.” 

The bell heralding the end of the interval rang again, and in his distraction, Crowley only caught the tail end of the thoughtful look on the man’s face. 

“Well, my dear, it’s an intriguing proposition. I shall have to give it some thought.” He said. “Later, and possibly at great length.” And with a sweep of his eyes down the length of Crowley’s body that he felt every inch of, the angel turned primly and walked back across the rapidly emptying bar towards his side of the theatre, his hands clasped behind his back. Crowley only realised once it was too late that he’d completely forgotten to gloat over the popcorn. He spent the second half of the play trying to work out if the angel had meant his comment to come across quite so suggestive and figured he probably did, the bastard. Crowley was under no illusion that he was fighting a losing battle here, but he was enjoying it far too much to stop. 

* * *

Aziraphale tried not to stare too much through the second half, but his eyes just kept dragging themselves back to the shadows of the box opposite. There was no doubt that he found the other man attractive, but he needed to remember that one evening of charged banter did not mean he should assume the man intended to pursue this any further. It was just coincidence that they kept seeing each other. That’s all. A series of coincidences.

Gabriel was up and heading out of their box before the applause died down, his interest in the play only extending to being able to say he’d seen it, apparently. Aziraphale often wondered how it was that he and his cousin were so different, but he supposed growing up on opposite sides of a very large ocean (both physical and metaphorical) would do that to you. They’d been close when they were younger and spent the summers together, sword fighting and doing all the usual things little boys do, but as they had grown and Aziraphale pursued a love of literature and the arts, Gabriel had become successful on the corporate sphere and his focus had shifted to more materialistic gains. 

Aziraphale tried to linger as long as possible in the theatre, but Gabriel ushered him out before he had a chance to at least catch sight of the adversary he’d made this evening. 

He wouldn’t get too upset about it, he just wouldn’t. 

* * *

Crowley cursed Hastur and Ligur. They’d insisted on going down below the stage after the final curtain dropped to congratulate (pester) their colleagues, and dragged Crowley along. By the time he’d got away the angel had left. He’d at least hoped to get a parting shot in, because as it stood, Angel had the last word and Crowley didn’t like that one bit. He felt like he owed the angel, and now he had no way of repaying him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later Crowley was still hung up on the angel he’d met on the tube. It had been a surreal evening, much like the best ones were, and he found himself returning to it in idle moments. To bright blue eyes, a languid sweep of a gaze, sparkling wit, and, if he was being completely honest, to plush pink lips wrapped around… yes. Well. Not the time to be thinking about that. Not when he was boarding the number nineteen bus en route to Sloane Square to see a client. Crowley hopped on, tapped his card, and climbed up to the top deck. If he was going to have to ride the bus, the least he could do was have a better view. It might provide a suitable distraction. 

Scanning the occupants of the top deck, he saw platinum curls sticking out over the top of The Observer. 

No… it couldn’t be… but, yes, somehow it was. He seemed thoroughly engrossed in his paper, so Crowley took the opportunity for a little payback. And maybe another chance to get a phone number while he was at it. 

Weaving his way down the aisle as naturally as possible, he swung around the pole and into the seat behind him. So far so good. He would wait until the bus was moving, then whisper something incredibly witty right in his ear, hopefully making him jump. Crowley just had to come up wi-

“Car still not fixed then, I take it?” 

_ FUCK!  _ Crowley nearly jumped himself. Angel didn’t even lower the paper, just calmly turned the page. 

“Why else would I be on this flea infested thing?” Crowley replied, irritation evident in his voice. He took a moment to appreciate the way Angel’s hair curled around his collar, just barely brushing it as he moved his head. Crowley had a mad urge to bury his nose in the patch of skin behind his ear, press his lips to it and see if the sounds Aziraphale made lived up to his facial expressions.

“Oh, I don’t know. Secret meetings? Overt surveillance?” Another painstaking page turn and even a shake of the paper this time, wrenching Crowley out of his not-so-idle fantasy. 

“Think you mean ‘covert’.” Crowley corrected, sitting back smugly and leaning against the cool window, foot up on the seat next to him.

Finally, Angel turned to look at him. Well, more like look him over, head to snakeskin-clad toe. Crowley couldn’t help but preen slightly. Particularly as a faint blush of the most delightful pink arose on Angel’s face. Shit, he was so damn pretty when he blushed like that. 

“If that’s what you think ‘covert’ looks like, then I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, my dear.” He sniffed, turning back to his paper with a rustle. Seriously, how could anyone make so much noise with a newspap… oh. Right. 

“‘M just hiding in plain sight. No Gabriel today?” Crowley asked as nonchalantly as possible. 

“No, thank heavens, he’s busy with his work people for the next few days. My evenings are free again.” Crowley felt oddly pleased about that, and had his head not been currently filled with visions of daring, cousin-defying rescues, he might have noticed the tone. 

“And I was so looking forward to meeting him…” Crowley lamented, voice dripping with sarcasm as the man snorted. “He looked like he really understood the nuances of Hamlet.” 

“Oh? You enjoyed the play, then?” Angel asked, not turning from his paper. 

“‘S alright? Actors were good. Plot's a bit dull. Catering was good. Spiced things up, certainly.” Crowley grinned.

Oh that got a reaction. The paper snapped down and Angel turned fully in his seat. Crowley met his shocked expression with a lopsided grin.

“ _ Dull?!  _ Hamlet is one of the bard’s greatest works! You cannot call a play filled with so much… so much  _ depth _ , ‘dull’!” The incredulous and slightly angry look suited him. Made those blue eyes flash. Crowley schooled his face into something even more dismissive. 

“Still prefer the funny ones.” He shrugged.

“Yes, well I suppose all the bawdy jokes and misdirection would be more your style.” The angel said, glancing out of the window before turning back to Crowley. “So which of the ‘funny ones’ would you recommend, then?” It was amazing how you could hear the quote marks. 

“Easy. Much Ado About Nothing. First joke’s in the title.” Crowley grinned again. 

“Yes, I suppose there is some wit to be found in that one.” The man looked out of the window again, and reached for the bell. “Well, my dear, to paraphrase dear Leonato, fare you well.” He stood up, folding the paper neatly, and stepped into the aisle as the bus slowed to a halt. 

“If we’re paraphrasing then, go, good partner, go!” Crowley grinned. See. He could quote Shakespeare too. 

The angel looked at him much like you would a puppy who had  _ almost _ got the trick right, dithering slightly before he turned and disappeared off down the stairs with only a brief flick of his eyes back at Crowley as he descended. Crowley watched him get off the bus at Hyde Park Corner, with a faint smile on his face. The bus was already moving before Crowley realised with a flush of annoyance that he’d not only forgotten to find a way of seeing the angel again, but the oh so clever Shakespeare line he had quoted came from the most asinine character in the play. He had, quite literally, made a fool of himself. 

And he felt every bit of one. 

The feeling persisted right through his meeting and into the next day, unfortunately, and the early start didn’t help. He had a busy day ahead, tracking down hard to find items for clients, and he needed a clear head. Not the one he had lately, filled with crinkles at the corners of those blue eyes, and the less said about the way they fluttered closed the better… Crowley only realised he’d stopped in the middle of the pavement when he was unceremoniously barged from behind. 

Right. Work. He’d come to a part of London he didn’t frequent very often, despite it being very close to where he lived. At least it had meant he hadn’t had to get on public transport again. 

One very successful meeting later, and Crowley was feeling much better as he sauntered vaguely back towards Mayfair. Spotting an old bookshop, he made the snap decision to have a poke around inside. You never knew what treasures you might find in these places, and the owners were often very keen to make his acquaintance. 

The bell over the door chimed merrily as he stepped into the dim and dusty interior. It was utter chaos. Charming chaos, filled with haphazard piles of books, comfortable looking chairs, and an inordinate number of angel themed knick-knacks, but undeniably chaos. The handful of people already inside glanced at him with an expression of suspicion that he was well used to when he walked into places like this, and turned back to their browsing. Crowley wandered further into the shop, and that’s when he saw him. 

“Oh you’re fucking kidding me.” Crowley muttered to himself with a sigh. 

What with one thing and another, he hadn’t got a good look at the body of the angel he’d met the other night, but there was no doubt that he’d missed a trick there. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, Crowley was now happily admiring the view as Angel stepped back and forth replacing books on the shelves from a heavy looking box he held in one arm, muttering to himself. Obviously not paying attention though, as one of the books was only put back half way onto the shelf and as Angel removed his hand it had already begun to tip. 

Crowley reacted on instinct, stepping forward and grabbing the book just before it fell onto a head full of fluffy, pale curls and apparently very little else this morning. 

It also meant he stepped very much into the man’s personal space, suddenly, and from behind. 

Oh shit. His hair smelled like coconut. That was what the sweet smell was. Crowley wasn’t sure why that was suddenly so important, but he was now craving Piña Colada and it was barely ten AM. 

* * *

Aziraphale felt a body move up behind him and tensed, snapping his head around in alarm. There was a moment of confusion as he was greeted with two distorted images of himself, before he worked out that he was looking at sunglasses. 

Round, fashionable sunglasses. Flanked by a familiar wry mouth and tousled, coppery hair and that dark tangle of a tattoo. Oh, and there was that delicious scent again. 

Aziraphale relaxed slightly, even as part of his brain tried to tell him he should still be wary. He’d been so disappointed to have missed this man after the play, so angry with Gabriel for ruining yet another thing in his life, but then he’d totally failed to do anything so useful as even find out his name when they ran into each other on the bus. He’d been feeling strangely melancholy about the whole business this morning. So for him to once again appear out of the blue felt like fate intervening. 

Following the line of the black-clad arm above his head, Aziraphale saw the book he’d just shelved held in an outstretched hand as if it had just been caught. 

“Ah.” Aziraphale said, realising what had happened, and turning to face his saviour.

“You were lucky I was in the area.” Crowley said, his voice a low purr.

“I suppose I am.” Aziraphale replied, surprised at just how sultry his own voice sounded. Only then did he realise quite how close they were. He blinked, but he found himself strangely reticent to move away

For a few moments Aziraphale became very aware of his own heart beating as the other man didn’t move at all. 

“This isn’t exactly convincing me that you’re not following me, you know.” Aziraphale said, a bit more authority returning to his voice and this seemed to break the spell. The man moved, but only enough to bring his arm down and lean one shoulder against the bookshelf next to him at an impossible angle. He crossed his arms, tapping the book idly into the crook of his elbow. Aziraphale put the box on his arm down and reached out to take it, but the man pulled it away. 

“Ah-ah. It’ll cost you.” He said. 

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow. “I rather think I already own it, my dear. This is my shop, you see.” 

“Still gonna cost you.” Was the reply, an agile tongue idly poking at teeth that were just slightly more pointed than was comfortable, as the book weaved hypnotically around in the air. “I’ll let you have...” The man looked at the book in his hand. “Oh fucking hell. Really?” He sighed. “I’ll let you have ‘An Ideal Husband’, in return for your name. ‘S only fair.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment. He’d been avoiding this bit, but he really didn’t want to part with another Wilde today. 

“Aziraphale.” He said, narrowing his eyes and waiting for the inevitable comments. “Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale…” The man repeated, head tilting as he contemplated it and Aziraphale was totally unprepared for just how good it sounded coming from that mouth. Or, indeed, just how good that mouth looked forming his name. “I like it. Aziiiiraphale. Suits you.”

Well that was a pleasant surprise. 

“My book?” Aziraphale requested, hand out flat in the small space between them. 

“Come and get it.” Was the purred response, complete with a smug grin. 

Aziraphale reached for the book but it was pulled out of his reach, forcing him to step even further into the man’s personal space to retrieve it. 

* * *

Crowley felt slightly giddy as he rolled the unusual name around in his head.  _ Aziraphale. _ It did suit him. Unconventional, slightly archaic sounding, and yet, quite a pretty ring to it. 

Catching the book had been an impulse move, but the rush from being so close to Aziraphale, and the look on his face when he recognised Crowley, had been thoroughly worth it. Hence he now found himself pulling the book away to encourage him into his space again. They’d been this close when Aziraphale had claimed the seat next to him on the train, but it hadn’t felt like this. He wasn’t entirely sure anything had ever felt like this. 

And now Aziraphale _had_ the book, instead of moving away he actually stepped closer. For a heart stopping moment Crowley thought Aziraphale might be about to kiss him, but the pout turned out to be one of concentration as Aziraphale leaned up above his head to slot the book onto a shelf, trapping him against the dark wood. Aziraphale was so close Crowley had to flatten himself against the bookshelf at his back and even then he could still feel the warmth pouring off the angel. Now was not a good time to wonder just how long Aziraphale had spent thinking about taking him home the other night. Or any other things the phrase ‘great length’ could be applied to. It was definitely not the time to be contemplating how long  _ he  _ would spend tonight thinking about the way Aziraphale manhandled that heavy box of books so easily. 

A broad hand came up, fingertips resting lightly on Crowley’s chest and pinning him in place as Aziraphale steadied himself, lifting slightly higher onto his toes in order to reach wherever it was he was putting this book. Crowley was pretty sure it wasn’t where he’d caught it falling from, but he had no idea right now. He felt completely scrambled, a state not helped by the way Aziraphale's breath was ghosting over his cheek. He suddenly realised he was completely at Aziraphale’s mercy, and it was far more appealing than he expected. 

“Am I to be granted the pleasure of your name then?” Aziraphale murmured quietly, right next to Crowley’s ear, and Aziraphale must be able to feel the way his heart was trying to break out of his chest. 

“Crowley.” He said, his voice cracking slightly, which utterly ruined his nonchalant image. He cleared his throat. “Anthony J. Crowley. But I prefer just Crowley.”

Aziraphale drew back down and retreated, folding his hands in front of his waist. Crowley’s body tried to follow him of its own accord, but he managed to pass it off as swapping which hip he was dropping his weight down into. 

“Well, ‘just Crowley’, I know for a fact that you don’t come here often, I would have noticed.” Aziraphale said, his gaze wandering again in that way that made Crowley feel noticeably warmer. “So if you aren’t following me, what, exactly, are you doing here?” He said, eyebrow raised and his eyes locking on to Crowley’s despite the sunglasses. 

Reasonable question. Unfortunately Crowley couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d walked in. 

Oh, right, the meeting. 

“Had a meeting down the road. I’m a dealer. Antiques, mostly. Rare stuff. I’m very good at tracking down things that are hard to find.” He said, only slightly smug. He was good at what he did, and had no qualms about being straightforward about it. 

“I’m not sure you’re helping your case here, my dear.” Aziraphale said, only the barest hint of amusement showing. 

“Eeeh, ‘S not like that. Had no idea you owned this place when I walked in. Just thought I’d make a new contact in case you had some interesting books you wanted to sell. I know some very rich buyers, and this looked like the kind of place that would have some interesting stock.” Crowley shrugged.

Somehow that seemed to have not been the right thing to say. The lightness vanished from the angel’s face and his body language shifted to a decidedly more defensive stance. 

“You’re calling in on business? You thought I’d  _ sell you my books?!”  _ Aziraphale bristled. “Out of the question. No book leaves this premises until I have personally vetted the buyer. You could sell them to anyone!” 

“Well, yeah, that’s sort of how it works…”

Crowley could feel whatever had been building between them rapidly going up in smoke as Aziraphale crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. Not the right moment to gawp at the way his biceps strained the shirt he was wearing, but Crowley had long ago given up on trying to get his brain to remain professional. It was why he always worked alone. 

“Well I’m sorry you’ve gone to all this trouble, but I’m afraid my answer is no. Now,” Aziraphale turned to the side and gestured towards the door, “I will be closing for lunch soon, so I must ask you to leave.” 

Crowley was gobsmacked. It didn’t happen very often, but the angel kept surprising him. He had no idea how this had gone so wrong so quickly, but judging by the way the twinkle in those blue eyes had been replaced by something that felt surprisingly like the cold touch of steel, Crowley decided his best option was to acquiesce. He’d got his wish to see what the angel was like when he got fired up, and, far from being his usual favourite part, he found he didn’t like it one bit. He stared a moment, as he tried to work out what the fuck just happened.

“Werl. Hnh. Have a nice day then, I guess.” Crowley jerked his head in a vague nod, shoved his hands as far as they would go into his pockets, stalked across the shop, and out through the door with its arsehole of a bell that he cursed profusely under his breath. He barely knew the man, why would he want to fight for something that clearly didn’t exist? Why did he feel so angry and bewildered about losing it?

It was fine. He had plenty of other people to fraternise with. He didn’t need this angel. 

* * *

Aziraphale watched him go. He should have listened to his gut in the first place, but it had been fun to flirt with Crowley. It wasn’t often Aziraphale found people capable of matching him, and even rarer when he found someone actually able to surprise him. 

Unfortunately, it seemed these meetings had been set up to draw him in. Crowley must have been trying to lull him into a false sense of camaraderie in the hope that he would get better prices. How the man had known where he would be was a bit of a mystery, but Aziraphale had already seen that there was intelligence hiding behind those mysterious sunglasses. He had succumbed to Crowley’s wiles and he felt quite the fool. 

But more than that, he felt disappointed to have lost someone that challenged him quite so skilfully. Crowley had kept him on his toes, but never once made him feel like he was being judged. It had been quite refreshing and he was rather more upset than he expected, to have lost it. 

Deciding he would just have to put the whole sorry business behind him, Aziraphale got on with the rest of his day. 

He managed two hours before he closed the bookshop and retreated back upstairs with a large glass of wine (red, seeing as Gabriel was elsewhere today) and a selection of Wodehouses that he suspected he would stare at without really reading. He was right. 

Aziraphale didn’t open the bookshop the next day either. In the evening he was almost pleased to be taking Gabriel on one, last, fruitless outing in an attempt to instil some culture in the man before he flew back to American in the morning. The day after that he opened the shop if only to attempt to distract himself with customers and thwarting their incessant demand to buy his books. He was not disappointed. 

On the third day he found himself relieved to have business elsewhere. He’d arranged to meet an acquaintance who had some interesting sounding books that she wanted to sell. So here he was, in Mayfair, utterly lost. He’d had his meeting, acquired several delightful first editions and some later works that were in need of some attention, stopped for lunch somewhere that turned out to be more style than substance, and now he was lost. He had intended on walking back to the shop seeing as it wasn’t far, but, between the weight of the new books and the wholly unsatisfactory lunch, he was decidedly irritable. He'd also begun to suspect that he might have got a bit carried away with the idea that Crowley had set up all those encounters, and was feeling even more foolish for his overreaction. 

He spied a minicab waiting at the curb, and marched up to the passenger window. 

“Could I trouble you to take me to Soho?” He asked, bending down. “I know it’s not far, but-”

“Nah, sorry mate, already booked. Can’t do curbside anyway.” Was the rather curt response from the driver, without so much as a glance in his direction. 

Aziraphale sighed heavily. Of course. He straightened up, mentally preparing himself for the trudge back to the shop. There would be some sort of tourist map somewhere if he headed for the larger roads, and it wasn’t a great inconvenience to walk, really. He’d just had enough of the busyness of London’s streets. 

The kind of busyness, for example, that led to him being collided into as he stepped away from the taxi window, by someone who clearly wasn’t looking where they were going as they rushed forwards to open the back door. Someone, he noticed as he took a step back to regain his balance, with vibrant red hair and a distinct lack of colour in their attire. 

“You!” 

Crowley looked up sharply, stopping as he was about to get in the car. 

“What are  _ you _ doing here?” Aziraphale demanded. 

“Attempting to get in a taxi. Could ask you the same.” Crowley gave him a curious look up and down. “You lost?”

“Wh… I… what makes you ask?” Aziraphale rallied.

Crowley just looked at him from behind the sunglasses, and Aziraphale was surprised to find he could actually read the expression on his face despite not being able to see his eyes. He looked away with a huff.

“D’you… m’unno. D’you wanna share?” Crowley asked tentatively, checking a very complicated looking watch.

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to look up sharply. In all their previous interactions he had never heard him speak so gently. 

“I, I, I couldn’t possibly.” Aziraphale stammered, wanting very much to. 

Crowley checked his watch again. “Ugh, look, call it an apology, for the other day or for crashing into you like that. Whatever suits.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him, holding his bag with the books in front of him protectively. He made no move to get in the car, but he didn’t seem to be walking away, either. He could almost feel the comfort of the leather seats and it was alarmingly tempting. Crowley looked at his watch again. He seemed rather rushed. 

“Aaaaargh! Look, Angel, I’m sorry. I apologise. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. Work with me, I’m apologising here. Yes? Good. Get in the car.” Crowley swept an arm towards the car, a movement that seemed to involve his whole body, motioning for Aziraphale to get in. When he didn't move, Crowley reached forward as if to take his bag. 

Aziraphale moved the bag out of his reach with a scolding look. He really shouldn’t get in the car. He shouldn’t. He really didn’t need whatever trouble Crowley was bringing into his life. 

He got in anyway. Lunch had been infuriatingly inadequate, and those seats did look very comfortable. 

“Where to, gents?” The taxi driver asked, not batting an eyelid at whatever drama had just been enacted out on the pavement. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who presumably was looking back at him, judging by the angle of his head. 

“It’s your taxi, my dear.” Aziraphale said, wincing slightly as the endearment slipped out. 

“Take him back to Soho first, then we’ll go from there. Right? It’s on the way, anyway.” Crowley said, one eyebrow raised to confirm. 

Aziraphale gasped slightly. “How did you know-” He began.

“Soho’s not-” The driver said at the same time. 

“Soho it is then!” Crowley said loudly and with an air of finality, before looking out of the window, his chin resting in his hand as the car set off. 

Aziraphale gave the driver the bookshop’s address, before turning to Crowley. He felt he should at least attempt to be polite, particularly after his behaviour last time. 

“Car still not fixed then?”

Crowley merely grunted a response which, along with a lazy hand gesture, indicated that of course it wasn’t bloody fixed, why else would he be in this sodding taxi?

“Well, these old things, they do need a bit of time. I’m sure it’ll be worth it in the end.” Aziraphale tried for a light tone, but missed. 

“Hmph.”

* * *

_ Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit! Fuck!  _

Crowley was going to be late. He tried never to be late. Basic rule in negotiating. Being late puts you in their debt already. If anything, be early. 

He also didn’t, as a rule, apologise. Yet somehow he’d seen Aziraphale, or not as the case may be, judging by the way he literally slammed into the poor bloke and not even in a fun way, and had a burning desire to not let him get away again. He hadn’t even really realised what he was doing until the car set off, and now he was going to be late to meet a very important client because the taxi,  _ his taxi, _ was going ten minutes in the opposite direction in order to take the angel home. Something he had pretty much begged the man to let him do. And Crowley never begged. He usually found a slow, knowing smile did the trick. 

Something about this man had him breaking habits of a lifetime though, and Crowley had no idea what to do about it. He was drawn to the angel, but it clearly wasn’t mutual. 

Although... 

Aziraphale had got in the taxi, hadn’t he? And now he was asking him about his car, but Crowley was in too much of a spin to listen. He was trying to work out what the hell happened to him when this man was around, and why it seemed to short circuit his brain quite so much. 

Oh but now it was quiet. Crowley didn’t like quiet. 

“You ever going to tell me what the hell I said to get thrown out of your shop? Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened, don’t get me wrong, but can’t say it’s happened in a while.” Crowley found himself asking. He was sure he’d decided he didn’t care, but apparently he was mistaken. 

“You… You wanted to buy my books... To sell them on...” Aziraphale said, sounding slightly surprised. 

“And... that’s a problem?” Crowley said, turning his head to look at him, his hand still in mid air from where it had been supporting his chin. 

“Well… yes! I have a very rigorous process when it comes to selling my books. They are incredibly precious, and I won’t sell them unless I know they are going to homes where they will be taken care of. You might sell them to anyone!” The angel looked affronted. Crowley had never encountered a shopkeeper who didn’t like selling his merchandise. In his experience, everyone had a price. Or a weakness. And a large part of his success was being very good at finding, and exploiting, both. 

“Right… no trying to buy books in the bookshop. Got it.” Crowley was thoroughly bemused. “Any other nonsensical rules I should know about?”

Aziraphale appeared to be examining him, working out how to answer, but before he had a chance they were pulling up to the curb and the angel was taking his seatbelt off. 

“How much..?” Aziraphale began.

“Don’t worry about it.” Crowley jumped in quickly, waving him away with his hand. “Business account.”

Aziraphale gave him another odd, lingering look. “Oh. Well. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley pulled a sour face at that, and Aziraphale got out. He dithered slightly, with the car door open. 

“I do hope your car is ready soon. I shall keep an eye out for classic Bentleys so I know when it is safe for me to walk the streets again.” And with a small, but critically more friendly, smile, he closed the car door and walked up the steps to the shop. 

Crowley didn’t even think to make the obvious joke, he was so distracted by the way the light caught the angel’s hair. He would have missed the way Aziraphale glanced back at the taxi before heading into the shop as well, if he hadn’t been twisted around to watch him as they drove away. 

“Business account?” The taxi driver asked. "Nobody said nuffink about accounts…”

“Huh? Nah, just didn’t really have time to faff with cash right now. How fast can you get me to Richmond?” Crowley said, looking at his watch again. It was a believable excuse. He nearly believed it himself. 

Fuck, he was so late. And now he wanted a Piña Colada. 

* * *

Aziraphale walked inside his shop, locking the door behind him. He turned to the empty, dusty, cluttered shop, caught sight of the cherub sat atop the display table in the middle of the room, and stopped. 

“‘ _ Angel’?! _ ” 

* * *

In the following days Aziraphale did indeed find himself keeping an eye out for a classic Bentley. He tried to remind himself that London was vast, and that he probably wouldn’t even know what a classic Bentley looked like if it nearly drove into him, although he’d wager it would be black. But the fact remained, Crowley could drive right past him and he’d never know. 

As the days turned into weeks, he stopped looking. But that one ‘Angel’ stayed in the back of his mind, taunting him at inconvenient moments. One such moment was during a very competitive auction when he really should have been paying attention. He tuned back in just in time to find the book he was after was about to have the hammer dropped on it. He quickly threw a hand in the air and, with his last minute dash of a bid, secured it. 

He bid on several more books in his fluster, and it was only when he went to settle up and collect them, that he realised he hadn’t brought anything to take them home in. He’d only intended on buying the one book and with nothing available at the auction house, Aziraphale resigned himself to carrying them home tucked in his coat. 

One step outside of the door and he realised just how difficult that task was going to be. It was absolutely chucking it down. He had brought an umbrella, but with hands full with the books he was unable to hold it. Aziraphale adjusted the books inside his coat and stepped out to the curb, searching the road for a black cab. 

* * *

Crowley didn’t go back to the bookshop again. He didn’t even drive that way when he eventually got the Bentley back. The way he went to pieces around the bastard book angel, he’d probably crash her and be stuck on the tube again. So he stayed away, and busied himself with work. 

Somehow four weeks passed, and Crowley was still fighting the urge to go to the bookshop. He’d also become very good at mixing the perfect Piña Colada, but refused to acknowledge why. Besides, it would be weird to just show up now. He had no reason to be there, other than just wanting to see if he could make Aziraphale (not Angel, definitely can’t slip up like that again even if he did get away with it) smile at him again. 

_ Not today.  _ He’d tell himself.  _ Be good today, and maybe tomorrow…  _

He wasn’t very good. Tomorrow kept getting further away. At this rate he’d never see-

“Aziraphale?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bookshop scene in this was meant to be just another funny interaction, then Crowley had to go and mention the purchasing of books and all of a sudden I'm sat looking at a whole chunk of story and wondering what the fuck just happened? 
> 
> Next chapter is where things start to get really fun...


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale.

It bloody was. Standing on the side of the road in the rain, the muppet. Crowley had just parked and was on his way to an auction due to start in half an hour or so, and there he was. Standing right next to a massive puddle, totally oblivious to the white van bearing down on him with intent. 

“Oh, bless it!” Crowley grumbled, striding quickly over and shoving his obnoxiously large, black umbrella in front of the daft man before he thought too much about it. The tidal wave from the van hit the umbrella, mostly missing Aziraphale. Crowley wasn’t so lucky, however. 

“FUCK!” He swore as the cold water dribbled down inside his collar and stuck his trousers to his thighs.

Aziraphale gaped at him. 

“What?!” Crowley snapped, scowling. Two seconds after seeing Aziraphale, and he’d already done something stupid. Personal record. 

“Crowley...” Oh. Oh no. That was a very dangerous tone of voice, particularly when combined with the expression on that cherubic face. Crowley did not need to know about that expression. He was having a hard enough time as it was (literally) trying not to think about the last one. Neither did he need to know that Aziraphale could say his name like that. That was the sort of dangerous reaction he could easily see himself doing very silly things to experience again.

He brought the umbrella up so it covered both of them, which had the added bonus of giving him the excuse to stand close to the angel.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Crowley demanded, steering Aziraphale away from the edge of the road, and that puddle. He had to make that look go away. Naturally he missed it as soon as it did. 

“Well it appears I got rather carried away at the rare books auction, and needed a taxi to take myself and the books home before we both got soaked.” Aziraphale sniffed as they stood, face to face under Crowley’s big, black umbrella, huddled against the red brick wall. “Oh! You… you saved my books! Oh, Crowley...” 

Ah fuck, that expression was back and it was even more dangerous this close up where he could smell the coconut again. Crowley was wondering if you could get Piña Coladas administered intravenously. He made a noise somewhere in the back of his throat, a sound between a groan and a growl, his body seeming to slouch even more than usual as he came to the inevitable decision. 

“Fine. Follow me.” Crowley ground out through clenched teeth, turning to walk away. But Aziraphale didn’t follow. 

“D’you want a lift, or not?” Crowley snapped. 

“With… with you?” Aziraphale stammered. 

“No, with the UFO that just landed. Of course with me. Look, you’ve been with me in a car already. More to the point, I already know where you work and I'm guessing you live there too. Any self respecting axe murderer would have got on with it by now. Yes? So come on.” 

But the angel clearly wasn’t convinced. Crowley knew he shouldn’t bother, but here he was, bothering. In more ways than one, probably. 

“At least let me show you the Bentley. She’s just round the corner and, frankly, I don’t want to stand out here soaking wet any more. Now. Coming?” 

Aziraphale nodded. Just once, a tentative little thing, but it was there, as he bustled after him. 

Crowley was glad Aziraphale stayed close under the protection of the umbrella. It almost made up for being drenched. As they neared the Bentley Crowley left Aziraphale holding the umbrella so he could dash round and unlock the car from the driver’s side. He got in, reaching over and unlocking the passenger door from the inside so he could push it open for Aziraphale. The suicide doors tended to confuse people to start with. 

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale said looking at the car, and it turned out there was an even more dangerous way the angel could say his name. Dangerous if one was about to, say, operate a tonne and a half of classic car with any semblance of safety. 

“Get in, Angel.” Crowley sighed. He pulled the passenger seat forwards so Aziraphale could deposit the books and the umbrella on the back seat, before climbing into the front. Seatbelt secured, Crowley pulled away, desperately trying to keep his focus on the road and not the beige clad knee resting a few centimetres from his own. It wasn’t far back to Soho, but it was a rainy day in London so the pace was slow. 

“Well.” Aziraphale said after a while. “I’m glad I finally managed to see the car that caused you so much trouble! She is rather beautiful, isn’t she?” Aziraphale put a hand out to stroke the lacquered walnut of the dashboard. 

They bumped over a manhole cover, and Aziraphale jumped as the car was filled with loud music, and a rich, male voice.

 _Driving back in style in my saloon will do quite nicely,  
_ _Just take me back to yours that will be fine._

Crowley scowled, jabbing at the radio’s off button. 

“Sorry, sound system is retrofitted, and it’s glitchy. Damn thing’s possessed. Comes on as and when it feels like, and has trouble with any CD that isn’t Queen’s Greatest Hits.” Crowley didn’t mention the uncanny way the lyrics tended to match his mood at the time. Aziraphale didn’t need to know that bit. 

“It’s quite alright, no harm done.” Aziraphale said, hands firmly in his lap. “It appears that once again I seemed to have been rather lucky that you were in the vicinity. I don’t really think you are following me, my dear, but you do seem to keep popping up. One might almost say that the universe is playing some sort of ineffable game with us.”

Crowley had been wondering about that, but he didn’t want to look too closely at it in case it stopped.

“ _You_ might. Pretty sure I’ve never said 'ineffable' in my life.” He grumbled.

That earned him a quiet hum, but nothing more. 

A few more minutes of crawling through traffic and Crowley was getting quite cold. He’d got soaked by the van, and the Bentley’s heating was long past her prime. As much as he wanted to string out the time he had Aziraphale in his car, he was quite relieved when they pulled up outside the bookshop. Crowley swung up towards the curb and put the handbrake on. 

Aziraphale turned to him. “Crowley… Would you like to come inside and dry off? I feel awful that you got so wet on my account.”

Crowley turned to look at the angel, fully intent on declining his offer so he could go home and lament his stupidity under a hot shower.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He said instead. “Promise I won’t try and buy any books.” He followed with, in an attempt to hide his confusion at the ‘no’ turning into a ‘yes’ somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Apparently Aziraphale could do things with his face that puppies only dreamed of. Either that, or Crowley was a total sucker. Which was entirely possible based on his recent behaviour. 

“Oh good. Then I won’t have to throw you out again.” Aziraphale replied with a wiggle. Oh Satan on a tricycle it was so fucking cute close up. Crowley turned the engine off in a bit of a daze and followed Aziraphale into the shop, his long arms being put to good use carrying the precious books. Crowley heard the click as Aziraphale locked the door again behind them, ‘closed’ sign firmly in place. 

It occurred to him that, for the first time, he had Aziraphale alone. 

Depositing their coats on the coat rack as Aziraphale took the books from him with another knee wobbling smile, Crowley trailed after the angel through to the centre of the shop, where he seemed to step between two bookshelves and vanish. Not convinced he’d fully thought this through, Crowley followed and found himself in a cosy little nook with an abundance of dark wood furniture and yet more books, a grandfather clock ticking stoically away in one corner. Crowley cast a curious eye over the furniture out of habit, feeling slightly guilty as he caught himself doing it, but was left suitably impressed with what he saw. 

Aziraphale looked around for somewhere to deposit his latest haul, then apparently gave up, putting them on the floor next to the desk before turning back to him. 

“Tea?” He asked, sounding a lot less sure of himself as he glanced around the space. “I apologise for the mess, it gets a tad chaotic in here when I’m reorganising.”

Crowley shrugged, a dismissive sort of thing. He quite liked the cosiness. It was a far cry from his sparse flat, and it felt warm in a way he could feel in his bones.

* * *

_Oh no. Oh, what have I done?_

Aziraphale was quietly panicking. Crowley was standing in his private little nook, his reading area for when he needed to be in the shop but didn’t need to be out on the main floor. And perhaps it was just a side effect of the chivalry, but Aziraphale was coming to the conclusion that he was really quite taken with this slender, graceful man, who had called him ‘Angel’ again in the gentlest voice. 

And they were alone.

Oh Lord, he was staring. 

Aziraphale darted out to the little kitchenette area tucked away at the back of the shop, and put the kettle on. While it was coming to the boil, he nipped upstairs and found the smallest jumper he could spare. It was very soft, preserved through lack of wear due to it being just a touch too closely cut for his liking. 

Tea made, and jumper over his arm, he returned to find Crowley still stood in the middle of the rug. 

“Crowley, please, sit down. You’ll wear a hole in the carpet.” Aziraphale said, handing him the mug of tea and gesturing to the sofa. 

Crowley looked horrified. 

“Aziraphale, that is a leather Chesterfield sofa, covered in what look like cashmere throws. My trousers are soaked, I’ll ruin them!” 

“Well remove them, then! We can’t have you just standing around like this.” Aziraphale said, too busy gesturing at the throws on the sofa to notice the way Crowley’s eyebrows shot upwards. He looked up just as Crowley managed to wrangle his face back under control. “Here, you can change into this while we dry your clothes. It’s the smallest one I’ve got, but I imagine it will still be voluminous on you.” Aziraphale said, handing him the oatmeal coloured jumper with only a brief once over this time. Aziraphale was glad to see it used. He rather liked the twining cable knit that snaked up the front. 

Stepping out to get the clothes horse from upstairs to hang Crowley’s shirt and jacket on, Aziraphale took his time in order to give Crowley a little privacy as he changed. He fetched Crowley's coat from the coat rack to hang as well, and was rather caught off guard when he returned to find Crowley had apparently misinterpreted his suggestion to remove the throws from the sofa, and had, instead, removed his trousers. Mercifully he’d draped one of the aforementioned throws over his lower half, but Aziraphale still needed a moment to process that a man that he was finding himself increasingly attracted to was half naked, wearing only his jumper and... oh good Lord he hoped Crowley was still wearing underwear.

Goodness, he was positively sprawled on the sofa. 

It was very quiet in his bookshop, wasn’t it?

In an attempt to hide the blush he could feel rising on his face, Aziraphale picked up the rest of Crowley's clothes and hung them on the dryer, putting it in front of the radiator. No sign of underwear, but that was no guarantee a man like Crowley actually wore any. And that was as far as Aziraphale was willing to take _that_ thought at the present moment. 

“There. Should be dry in a jiffy.” Aziraphale said. Keeping busy was probably his best option. Preferably somewhere else so he couldn’t make a complete tit of himself. He moved to the gramophone, selecting a record at random and putting it on. 

Ah. Beethoven’s 6th Symphony. That should do. Straightening up, he smiled slightly as the first bars washed over him. Only then did he actually look at Crowley. 

It appeared the gods were against Aziraphale today, for Crowley had removed his sunglasses. From where Aziraphale was, he could see dark eyelashes, but as Crowley had taken out his phone and was looking down at it, Aziraphale was once again denied the colour of his eyes. 

Oh, blast. Staring again. Fortunately, Crowley was looking intently at the screen in one hand, the black mug (Aziraphale was rather pleased to discover that one in the back of the cupboard) cradled to his chest with the other. It was really rather unfair just how gorgeous Crowley could look both styled to the extreme in his tight, black suit, and also drowning in a beige jumper several sizes too big and snuggled into the cushions on Aziraphale’s sofa. 

It was really quite inconsiderate, in Aziraphale’s opinion. It was bad enough that this man had to invade his thoughts, and now he came in here looking so… comfortably at home. He had no right fitting into Aziraphale’s space so well. Never mind that Aziraphale had invited him in, that was beside the point. 

“I’ll just… um… tidying…” Aziraphale stammered. He received another one of those vague hand gestures in response, a graceful movement of fingers that he took to mean Crowley didn’t mind.

Half an hour of bustling about on the shop floor in an effort to stop himself attempting something very ill-advised in relation to that throw, and Aziraphale started to worry that he hadn’t heard anything from Crowley. The record finished, and he poked his head through the gap in the bookshelves to check if Crowley needed anything to find him fast asleep, phone dropped on his chest, mug having fortunately already been placed on the floor beside him. Aziraphale huffed. Crowley had the audacity to look even more beautiful with his features relaxed in slumber. Oh this man was infuriating.

Judging by the slow, rhythmic breaths, Crowley was fast asleep rather than just dozing. Aziraphale decided it would be better to let him get some rest, and so fetched himself a book. After carefully moving Crowley’s phone to the coffee table, he sat down himself. He felt slightly awkward sat so close to someone whom he seemed to keep forgetting was little more than a stranger as he slept, but they were in _his_ bookshop. Aziraphale would sit wherever he liked, thank you very much. If his chosen perch happened to be positioned to keep a purely watchful, and not at all indulgent, eye on his guest, then so be it. 

Crowley shifted in his sleep and Aziraphale remembered he was supposed to be reading. He should at least open a book for the look of it. 

One paragraph in (albeit one paragraph that had been read many times over) and Aziraphale realised that Crowley was gradually curling in on himself. He’d gone from a careless sprawl of limbs to a rather more self-contained posture on his side. How curious.

A few creaks and huffs of the leather cushions, and Crowley turned on to his front. Aziraphale glanced up just in time to see a knee kick out towards the backrest, and the throw slither away. 

Well, that answered the question about underwear at least. Tight, black trunks, short in the leg and low on the hips, sat snugly over the most perfect bottom Aziraphale had ever seen. His eyes ran down the graceful length of Crowley’s bare legs, noting with fondness that one black sock sat neatly, while the other had slipped down and twisted. Crowley looked so vulnerable like this, so completely different from the first time Aziraphale had seen him and good Lord he’d just touched his leg like it was nothing. 

Crowley made a strange sound, his whole body twitching. It startled Aziraphale out of the highly inappropriate daydream he’d been having about the smooth, hairless patch at the top of Crowley’s inner thigh. It was a shockingly intimate part of his body, and Aziraphale really wished he didn’t know what it looked like. 

He stood up quietly, carefully lifting the throw to drape it back over Crowley’s legs with baited breath. It would not do to be caught in this position, it would give entirely the wrong impression. 

Crisis averted, Aziraphale returned to reading, managing a full page before his focus was once again interrupted by the snuffling sounds to his left. Really, they were far too adorable for someone so… spiky. 

An hour passed in this way, and dusk began to creep in at the windows, forcing Aziraphale to light his desk lamp. Crowley had spread out again now he was on his front, face smooshed into the tartan cushion underneath his head. One arm was dangling down to the floor, and both feet were hooked over the arm of the sofa, legs bent at the knee. The throw preserved his modesty, even if his dignity may be in question if Aziraphale were to ever mention the way his other arm was curled tightly around the cushion. 

Aziraphale was in a quandary. It was one thing to let Crowley nap on his sofa, but it was getting late and it was looking increasingly like he was going to have to wake him up. 

Unsure of the proper protocol for waking a half naked man whom you had not had relations with but would not turn them down were the opportunity to arise, Aziraphale settled for kneeling next to the sofa’s arm, slightly above Crowley’s head, and gently nudging a shoulder. Heavens, he looked simply adorable. Without the distractions of his constant movement Aziraphale finally had the chance to examine the tattoo on Crowley’s face. It seemed to be a snake, looped and coiled just in front of his ear. An unusual choice and Aziraphale found himself very curious to know the motivation behind it. Crowley shifted again, nuzzling down into the jumper and whining in protest, and Aziraphale couldn’t have helped the smile that stole over his face even if he’d realised it was there. 

* * *

Crowley was floating. It was all very comfortable, and he felt incredibly relaxed. He wasn’t overly pleased that his shoulder was being manhandled, and grumbled something consonant-filled to that effect. 

“Crowley…” 

Well at least there was a nice voice, the sort of voice that would belong to an... Angel! Crowley opened one eye, half hoping he wouldn’t see what he expected, half hoping he would. Because if his memory served him well he had been alone in the bookshop with a man he was very much attracted to, and falling asleep on the sofa had not been on his list of ideal outcomes for this scenario. 

Crowley looked up slowly, one eye sweeping across the room in search of the man in question. With a groan and a smack of his lips as he reset his jaw he pulled his arms in, propping himself up onto his elbows. Raising his head, his vision swam into focus on Aziraphale. Kneeling on the floor in front of him. Smiling in a way that hit him right in the centre of his chest. Oh fuck. He wanted to wake up to that smile every day. He wanted to catalogue all the different ways Aziraphale smiled. He wanted there to be a smile just for him. He wanted a really fucking big Piña Colada. 

As it was, all he could do was stare, slack-jawed and silent. The beautiful smile reined itself in to something slightly less blinding not long after he caught sight of those blue eyes, but Aziraphale didn’t look away. Crowley’s brain finally came fully online to the realisation that he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. 

Ah. That explained the staring. 

Brought back to Earth with a crash, Crowley dropped his gaze, shuffling backwards and reorganising limbs so he could sit up. The slithering feel of fabric against his legs reminded him that he was far from properly attired, but even as he scrabbled with the throw to retain his modesty it felt less exposing than the lack of sunglasses had. 

Aziraphale hadn’t moved. 

“Crowley, my dear, I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s getting quite late.” 

Crowley made another garbled sound and shrugged, a heavy, awkward movement, incongruous with his usual fluidity. 

“Sorry, I’ll get out of your way.” He mumbled, looking around for his clothes. Fuck, it was getting dark. How long had he been asleep?!

“Now, now, none of that. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, my dear.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley did look up at that. Because Aziraphale had no idea what he was offering, making statements like that when he’d just given Crowley that smile. 

As Crowley’s gaze drifted back down it snagged on the neatly manicured hand extended towards him, and the dark circles of glass sat in it. He took the sunglasses, slipping them gratefully onto his face and feeling immediately more himself. 

It must have shown, because there was another smile on Aziraphale’s face. 

Crowley just watched as Aziraphale stood up, retrieved his dry clothes, and deposited them next to him on the sofa. Crowley wondered if the poor things were in shock from being folded for the first time.

“I’ll make you another cup of tea so you’re a bit more awake before you drive home.” Aziraphale said, picking up the cup from the floor and walking quietly out towards the kitchenette. 

Crowley put his sunglasses on his head and scrubbed his hands over his face to try and shift the final dregs of sleep. 

“Fuck.” He whispered softly to himself. He knew he’d been skimping on the sleep lately, but this was ridiculous. He looked at the grandfather clock opposite. 

That couldn’t be right. 

He found his phone on the coffee table and checked that. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” He hissed, throwing his clothes on as quickly as possible. 

* * *

Aziraphale took a moment to compose himself in the kitchenette. Oh, this was rather inconvenient. He’d gone and developed feelings for a man he barely knew. He was going to have to keep a tight lid on his emotions around Crowley from now on. 

Oh, but those eyes. Crowley had kind eyes. They were a lovely, honeyed brown colour, with one pupil noticeably bigger than the other. They were fascinating, and Aziraphale had completely lost himself in them. If eyes were the window to the soul, then Crowley’s mismatched eyes suited him perfectly. The brash, cocky, indifferent side he showed to the world was balanced out by a kindness and gentleness that he tried so very hard to hide. 

Fresh cups of tea made, Aziraphale guessed that Crowley must have finished dressing by now. Stepping out into the centre of the bookshop, he was met with Crowley dashing out from between the stacks, shirt half tucked in and open at the collar, coat slung over one arm. He looked every bit the handsome rogue and Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Angel!” Crowley called, head ducked as he shoved his phone into his pocket. “Gotta dash!” Looking up he noticed Aziraphale, and lowered his voice. “Ah! Sorry, prior engagement. Thanks for the drying and the… sssofa.” He said, waving his hands around before spinning on his heels and striding off towards the door. Aziraphale saw him pause, hand on the handle, then his heart leapt in his mouth as Crowley came striding back. For a moment Aziraphale thought, well, hoped really, that Crowley was about to kiss him. Instead he dithered, whatever words he needed clearly evading him. 

“Uh… tea.” Crowley said, looking down and taking the mug from Aziraphale’s unresisting hand. “Thanks.” He took a huge gulp of the steaming liquid.

“Here, let me just…” Aziraphale reached up with his free hand, towards Crowley’s flattened hair. He dragged his fingers along Crowley’s scalp as he tousled his hair back to its former glory, perhaps spending slightly longer than it needed, but only very slightly. He made sure to restore that one bit that dangled rakishly over his forehead, tugging it down and just barely resisting letting his knuckles brush down Crowley’s cheek as his hand fell. 

“There.” Aziraphale said, slightly breathlessly as he admired his handiwork. Crowley’s hair unfortunately felt as lovely as he’d expected. 

Another distracted swig of the scalding tea, and Crowley wordlessly handed him the now empty mug. His movements seemed a bit looser as he spun around and repeated the leaving process, this time actually putting his coat on and managing to open the door on the second try. Crowley headed silently out into the approaching evening, waving in that curiously off-beat manner of his as he went. 

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. 

Returning to his reading corner, he put Crowley’s empty mug down on the table next to his full one, and turned to the sofa. He picked up the jumper, bringing it to his nose before he even really realised he was doing it. His usual home scent was overlaid with something altogether spicier, and it smelled sinfully good. He put it to one side, delaying the decision on whether to wash it immediately or keep it for a while. 

Shaking out the throw that had been so recently wrapped around a delightfully shapely pair of legs, there was a dull thud as something hit the floor. Aziraphale looked down to see a small square of black leather on the carpet by his feet. 

Ah. 

* * *

Crowley sped the Bentley home before setting out into the night. Hastur and Ligur would be so far ahead by now he could already taste the hangover he’d have tomorrow. For one, stupid moment he’d been about to invite Aziraphale to come along, never mind the brief compulsion to sweep him up in his arms and snog him senseless. 

But dragging him out to the theatre would mean inflicting the gruesome twosome on him and he’d chickened out when faced with those ridiculously heavenly eyes. He didn’t want to share the angel with those two philistines. 

Steeling himself for the terrible attempts at banter he was about to endure, he held onto the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair, gently teasing the strands and scratching at his scalp. It had taken all his willpower not to lean into Aziraphale’s hand as it ghosted down the side of his face. 

Satan’s arsehole, when did he get so pathetic? 

He certainly wasn’t feeling any better about himself the next morning. Hastur and Ligur had been merciless. Even more so when he discovered his wallet missing from his trousers. The only place it could have fallen out was in Aziraphale’s bookshop, but in searching for it he'd found the slip of paper currently in his hand. 

_Do let me know if anything needs dry cleaning. Aziraphale._

And under that, a phone number. Not a mobile number, an honest to god landline. In neat, blue ink. 

And that was why he was currently sat on his hard, white, leather sofa in his pants and dressing gown at some ungodly hour of the morning, chugging the strongest coffee he could muster, and staring at a scrap of paper torn from a notebook. Aziraphale had such precise handwriting because of course he did. Perfectly legible, every letter sitting neatly on the line. 

Crowley snarled at the note. Grabbing a pen he scrawled ‘ _call him you coward'_ underneath it, his black biro jerking across the paper and paying no heed to any lines or readability. He stuck it to the fridge with a magnet moulded to look like a coiled snake, and stalked down the hall to the bathroom. He wouldn’t be much use until the coffee kicked in, and a hot shower would help. Then he would just have to go back to the bookshop and hope Aziraphale was in. 

* * *

Aziraphale smiled politely at the lady holding the door for him as he stepped into the building. It was vaguely familiar, and very modern. Plenty of glass and grey. He had intended to press the buzzer, but when she held the door for him he couldn’t help but succumb to the pressure to step through. 

He looked at the card in his hand, double checking the flat number, and began to climb the stairs. 

Rifling through Crowley’s wallet had been a revelation. There hadn’t been much in it to define the owner, bar the debossed snake on the inside flanked by the initials ‘A’ and ‘C’. But it had contained a driving licence so Aziraphale now knew Crowley’s home address, and his birthday. He’d been surprised to find Crowley was actually slightly older than him. The photo was positively charming, however. It was rather unfair. Passport and driving licence photos were supposed to be awful, washed out, sickly looking things, but Crowley looked as vibrant as ever. It showed him with chin length hair, pulled back on the top and curling slightly behind his ears. It rather suited him. 

And so, Aziraphale finally found himself standing outside the door of number thirteen, not at all surprised to find it was one of the two penthouses. The bell to the right of the door had another snake covering it, and the stark, heavy grey of the hallway leant it a rather spooky atmosphere. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he pressed the button.

* * *

Crowley had just stepped out of a very enjoyable shower when the doorbell rang. His front door, as opposed to the intercom buzzer. Bloody neighbours coming over and ruining his mood. He’d thought about Aziraphale in the shower, which was only ever going to be a dangerous thing to do. More specifically, he’d thought about being woken up on that sofa in a rather different manner, and, well, one thing had led to another and now he was in a good mood, ok?

Figuring he might as well scandalise his neighbours while he was at it, Crowley threw on some loose pyjama bottoms, and with the towel slung around his neck as he dried his hair he yanked open the door at the second ring. 

* * *

Aziraphale froze, his finger still extended towards the bell. He shouldn’t look. He should really stop looking. He should be looking away, he _would_ look away, any moment now… 

Suffice to say, Aziraphale was having trouble looking away. Crowley had answered the door with nothing on his top half, bar the towel slung around his neck, one end of which was currently raised and being scrubbed through wet hair. Only, it seemed to have stilled, one eye peering out from behind the black terry cloth. 

Aziraphale looked up to see a very smug grin spreading across Crowley’s face. 

“Now who’s following who? Missed me already, did you?”

Aziraphale could feel his face heat up. Crowley was the very pinnacle of temptation. The looseness of his low slung trousers only seemed to emphasise his narrow waist and slender torso, and the less said about the way they draped over his, well, the less said the better. Gracious, the line of his hip bones was positively scathing. Crowley was still flushed from the shower, and there were a few droplets of water sitting in the hollow at the base of his throat where he’d missed them with the towel. They looked very inviting and Aziraphale’s mouth was very dry. 

Good Lord, in the last twelve hours he’d as good as seen Crowley naked. That thought snapped him out of his daze as the blush intensified. 

“Hardly, my dear. I’m not sure there’s much of you left to miss…” Aziraphale said, gesturing towards Crowley with a non-specific wave of his hand. 

Crowley snorted out a laugh, and turned, walking into the flat. 

“Come on, then.” He called out as he sauntered away. 

_He has dimples on his lower back._ Two perfect divots sitting exactly where thumbs would go if Aziraphale were to put his hands on those swaying hips, and this was just the sort of thought that could get a man into serious trouble. Crowley really had no right swanning around looking so effortlessly gorgeous. Sending up a silent prayer to a god he didn’t believe in, Aziraphale entered the flat hoping he wouldn’t do anything to embarrass himself. 

Crowley vanished through another door, and Aziraphale hurriedly closed the front door and followed, leaving his shoes in the hall. The room he walked into was spacious and open plan. One side a living area with a large, white, uncomfortable looking modern leather sofa, in the centre a small metal and glass dining table with four chairs, and on the other side a kitchen with a breakfast bar separating it from the main area. The walls were a lighter grey than the hallway, but it still bore the same cavernous feel. 

Crowley was standing in the middle of the room, holding both ends of the towel now, and severely testing Aziraphale’s self control. 

“If this is a social call, it’s a bit bloody early.” Crowley said, a teasing lilt to his voice. 

Aziraphale was trying not to look. He focused on Crowley’s beautifully mis-matched eyes instead. 

“Crowley, it’s nearly noon.” Aziraphale said, narrowing his eyes. 

“Exactly. Morning. Too early.” Crowley replied with a grin. Then he had to go and yawn and the stretch of his body as he did so was quite something to behold. Aziraphale was already very aware that he was going to need a brisk walk after this, and he felt it rather unfair of Crowley to exacerbate the issue. 

“Rough night then?” Aziraphale asked, before his eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh I do apologise, I didn’t think, of course you’ve probably got… Oh, I should go.” He stammered, suddenly realising that there was a very good chance that Crowley wasn’t alone, as distasteful as he found that thought. 

It earned him a frown. 

“What? No… Look. Let me get some clothes on. Help yourself to…” Crowley gestured towards the entirety of the kitchen before stepping around Aziraphale and off towards what was presumably his bedroom. 

It was a few moments before Aziraphale could move. Crowley had walked very close by him and it had taken an enormous amount of willpower not to let his twitching fingers reach out. Combined with the scent that carried over in his wake, it was enough to rid Aziraphale of all rational thought for a little while. 

Hands sufficiently chastised for their insubordination, he stepped into the kitchen, deciding it would be a good opportunity to investigate what Crowley liked to drink. Turning around in the centre as he eyed up the gloss grey units for tea containing potential, he spied the fridge. A huge, brushed steel effect monstrosity. There seemed to be a few magnets stuck to it, holding various notes, receipts, and important scraps of paper. 

One of which looked familiar. 

Stepping closer, Aziraphale noticed the addition that Crowley had added underneath his offer to dry clean the soaked clothes.

Feeling bold, he took a pen from his inside pocket and quickly added to the note. 

Once he’d done it, he felt distinctly less bold. As he heard footsteps returning, he hurried over to the breakfast bar, taking the wallet out of his pocket. 

“So what brings you to my door?” Crowley asked as he walked back into the room. “And, frankly, I’m curious to know how you knew where my door was, and how you got up here without using the buzzer. I hadn’t pegged you for a gentleman thief, but I suppose you must acquire your books somehow.” 

Aziraphale decided he was utterly done for with this man. Even fully clothed, albeit in head to toe skin-tight black jeans and shirt, he was simply stunning. He was still barefoot, and hadn’t styled his hair yet so it fell over his forehead in damp clumps. He looked delightfully undone. Oh, Aziraphale was in so much trouble. 

“One of your neighbours held the downstairs door for me, so I had no choice but to come in, I’m afraid.” He said. “As for knowing where you live, it wasn’t hard. You left this at the bookshop, and it has your driving licence in it.” Aziraphale said, holding out the wallet. 

“Oh, thank fuck for that. I was wondering where that got to!” Crowley said, looking rather relieved as he took it and stuffed it in his back pocket without looking.

Mission completed, Aziraphale was acutely aware of what he had just written on the note on Crowley’s fridge, and he really would rather not be here when Crowley found it. 

“Right! I shall let you get back to... whatever it was you were doing then, shall I?” Aziraphale said very quickly, moving towards the door and not quite able to meet Crowley’s eyes. He hadn’t put his sunglasses back on and Aziraphale knew if he looked too long at them he was sure to do something he may later regret. Something involving lips and probably tongue if he got really carried away. 

Crowley spun in place as he bustled past. 

“Don’t you want a cuppa, at least? Seeing as you’re here? Maybe something stronger? 'S practically noon...” He offered. Aziraphale looked back at him from the doorway. At the almost desperate look in eyes that were no longer shielded from him. This was moving a little too fast.

“Better not.” He said, carefully. But Crowley rallied. 

“Can I drop you anywhere? I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” The look on Crowley’s face now was terrifying Aziraphale. He looked almost as if he were feeling the same pull that had resulted in Aziraphale traipsing across London to the home of a man that he barely knew. He looked as if he might welcome Aziraphale if he were to cross the space between them. It was all too much to think that such a sublime man could feel anything like what he was feeling right now. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” He blurted out, then turned and all but fled the flat. Aziraphale tried not to feel like he’d just made a huge mistake, but it was a close call. 

* * *

Crowley had been surprised when Aziraphale showed up at his door. He’d suspected he was returning his wallet, but didn’t see the harm in dragging it out. The fact of the matter was, he really enjoyed spending time with this fussy Angel. He’d probably come on a bit strong when Aziraphale arrived, what with his mind still being vaguely on the sofa back in the bookshop, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to be put off. If anything, he was reacting in all the right ways. 

Crowley had no idea what changed in the time it took him to throw on some clothes (alright, so he changed shirts three times), but Aziraphale had seemed far more hesitant when he returned. Jumpy, even. He’d done everything he could think of to get the angel to stay, short of begging, and he’d have probably done that if he’d thought it would work. As it was he simply followed him to the door, just about catching sight of his coattails as he vanished down the stairs. Crowley closed his front door, resting his forehead heavily against it with a sigh. 

_Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck._

So much for his good mood. 

* * *

Aziraphale hovered near the phone for three days, wishing he’d been just that little bit braver, before realising Crowley wasn’t going to call. He’d been a fool and managed to wreck something that he didn’t even realise how much he wanted until he lost it. Chalking it up to experience, he endeavoured to get on with running a bookshop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patience, Aziraphale. Nobody looks at the stuff they leave on the fridge...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning here - Gabriel is going to display some heteronormative thinking. No homophobia though.

Crowley threw himself down on his sofa with a loud groan. For three days he’d been moping around his flat trying to work out where it all went wrong, and just what the hell ‘you go too fast for me’ meant, and the answer was staring him in the face. Literally. Face height. On his damned fridge. 

In his defence, nobody actually looks at the stuff they stick to fridges, because who has time to read stuff when you’re busy checking if you have any of that chocolate mousse left? 

But he’d discovered that the note, Aziraphale’s note, the one he’d scrawled on to shame himself into making that call, had an addendum. Underneath Crowley’s barely legible call to arms were three words in neatly spaced blue ink. 

_ He likes sushi.  _

Oh. Oh, of course. That made so much more sense. A man like that, of course he wanted to be wined and dined. ‘Wooed’ probably. And apparently that involved sushi. Well if Angel wanted sushi, sushi is what he would get. 

Crowley picked up the phone. 

Aziraphale answered on the third ring. 

“I’m afraid we are quite closed.” Came the answer, his voice clipped in a way Crowley hadn’t heard before. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley said, rushing to get it out before he lost his nerve or Aziraphale hung up. “It’s me. Listen, I’ve just seen… um… well… nghh… Sushi. You like... Do you want sushi?” Crowley slapped a hand over his face. It’d be a miracle if Aziraphale said yes after that shit-show. 

“With you?” 

“With me.” He cringed. 

“My dear, are you attempting to ask me out on a date?” Aziraphale said, and there was the barest hint of a smile in his voice.

Unfortunately Crowley's mouth had completely given up and all that came out was garbled nonsense.  _ Smooth.  _

“Because if you are,” Aziraphale continued, clearly taking pity on him, “then I would be very amenable.”

The tension leaving Crowley’s body came out in an audible sigh. “Yeah? Great. That’s… great. Tomorrow? Pick you up at seven?” He tried not to sound too eager and failed. 

“Tomorrow?” Now Aziraphale’s voice was showing signs of distress and Crowley rapidly gained insight into what ‘you go too fast for me’ might have meant. 

“Ooor… next week?” He offered, trying to work out what an acceptable amount of time might be.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at seven, my dear.” Aziraphale said, now sounding so certain that it left Crowley reeling again, but he could definitely hear a smile in that voice this time. He hoped it might be the one that would be just for him. 

“At seven. I’ll… I’ll pick you up. Shit, I said that already, didn’t I?”

“You did, my dear.” Aziraphale laughed and Crowley felt it right down to his toes. 

“Right, yeah, until tomorrow then.” 

“Until tomorrow, my dear. Mind how you go.”

Crowley hung up with the biggest smile on his face. Nothing was going to ruin  _ this  _ good mood. 

After a day of bouncing off the walls and trying on everything he owned, standing outside a very dark, and very locked bookshop at seven PM the next day was threatening to, however. 

It occurred to Crowley that he’d never specified where he would pick Aziraphale up. He’d sort of just assumed that there was a flat above the bookshop, because the angel had never mentioned anything else, but they’d agreed seven, there was no sign of beige overcoats and tartan bow ties, and the bookshop was most definitely closed. 

He was just getting his phone out to call Aziraphale when an older lady with flaming ginger hair came puffing up to him. 

“You must be Crowley! Aziraphale said you looked like sex on very long legs and he wasn’t wrong, I see.” She said, casting an appraising eye over him. “I’m glad I managed to catch you! I was worried you’d get away before I made it over. My knees, you see, they’re not what they used to be.”

“He… He said what?!” Crowley managed, having completely missed anything past ‘sex on very long legs’. 

“Well… Not in so many words, dearie, but I’ve learned to read between the lines over the years.” She winked. “Now, he said you’d be here, and he asked me to express his sincerest apologies and give you this note.” She handed him an envelope with a familiar, blue ink on the front.

Crowley felt his mood finally plummet as his heart took up residence somewhere in the region of his ankles. A note. A closed bookshop, and a note. It didn’t look good, despite what this woman read into a description. 

The lady hovered, her thickly kohled eyes watching him carefully. 

“Well, open it then dearie, he was ever so anxious that you get this and I’m dying to know what had our stoic Mr Fell in such a tizzy.”

Crowley flicked open the back of the envelope with his thumb and slipped the paper out. He skimmed the note. 

Then he went back and read it again in more detail, his own smile blooming on his face.

_ My dear Crowley, _

_ If you’re reading this then Madame Tracy has managed to catch you. I caution you to not be fooled by her friendly manner and if she offers you anything to eat or drink I strongly recommend you do not accept. She is a dear friend, but she is a menace. (You are, my dear.) I dread to think what I have unleashed on the city by introducing the two of you.  _

_ However, having found myself somewhat too distracted at our last encounter to acquire a telephone number for yourself, I have no other way to let you know what has happened, and I could not let you think I had changed my mind about seeing you tonight. _

_ My cousin, Gabriel, took it upon himself to catch a last minute flight over yesterday without telling me, and turned up here insisting I accompany him to Ikoyil in St James’s. I did try and tell him I had a prior engagement, but he is highly adept at not hearing anything that gets in the way of what he has planned. He did, graciously, concede that I should ‘tell her to join us, if she exists.’ _

_ I find myself quite unwilling to tolerate any more of his behaviour, and so it appears the time has come for me to finally encourage my cousin to disown me pretty bloody fast. I wonder if you might know anyone who can assist in this matter? _

_ Yours,  _

_ Aziraphale _

Crowley shoved the note at who he had surmised was this ‘Madame Tracy’, ignoring her knowing smile, and, leaving the Bentley at the bookshop, strode off on foot. 

He had an Angel to rescue. Again. 

* * *

Aziraphale looked at the menu with a sinking heart and rumbling stomach. High prices and obscure language suggested that he would not leave here fully sated tonight. Along with the company, the evening was shaping up to be a very poor facsimile of the one he had planned. Aziraphale could only hope that Madame Tracy had caught Crowley, and that he had understood the note. 

The sight of his starter had Aziraphale rapidly losing hope and patience. He was so busy trying not to think of the sushi he should have been eating (not to mention the company he should have been eating it with) that he didn’t notice the commotion at first. It wasn’t until Gabriel made a comment that he noticed all the furtive glances towards the front desk. He followed their gaze. 

“Look, for pity’s sake, let me just… ANGEL!” 

Well. There was only one person that voice could belong to. Aziraphale didn’t even try to stop the way his face lit up. 

“Crowley!” He said, delighted beyond measure as he stood to look at him. The sight that greeted him required somewhat of a double take as he took in the skewed clothing, the wild expression, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and, perhaps more importantly, the hand of the maître d’ across said chest. Everyone in the restaurant had turned to look. “Oh good  _ Lord… _ ” Aziraphale mumbled to himself. Crowley certainly knew how to make an entrance. 

A waiter appeared at Aziraphale’s elbow. 

“The gentleman claims to be with you, sir.” He said quietly. 

“‘Gentleman’ is probably being generous, but yes, he is with me, and I would appreciate it if you did not upset my guest.” Aziraphale replied as haughtily as possible. 

The staff immediately leapt into action, pulling up an extra chair, and finding cutlery and glasses as Crowley straightened his clothing. Aziraphale remained standing, watching as Crowley wound his way over towards him, every eye in the restaurant following the sway of his hips. He was once again utterly captivated by the way Crowley moved, and was idly considering whether it should be illegal (or if, in fact, it already was), when he realised that Crowley had reached the table and not stopped. Aziraphale’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest as Crowley leaned in towards his ear, slender fingers curling around his bicep for support. 

“Got your note, leave it to me.” Crowley murmured in his ear, before placing a quick kiss on his cheek that nearly left Aziraphale crashing back down onto his seat as his knees threatened to give in. Really, sending his heart racing like that at his age was bound to cause trouble. 

Crowley pulled back, and Aziraphale plonked down in his chair rather harder than he’d intended. 

“Hiya Angel, sorry I’m late. Made a quick stop along the way, and it turns out the staff here think someone that wears suits as expensive as mine still isn’t rich enough to actually eat here.” Crowley said loudly, fighting what seemed to be a losing battle with his chair. 

“You… you aren’t actually wearing a suit, my dear.” Aziraphale said, rather distracted by the sight of Crowley sprawled in his tight black jeans, a black waistcoat layered over a charcoal t-shirt of some sort, and a black blazer over the top. He had a silvery scarf tied loosely around his neck, the tassels waving as he moved. As Crowley reclined, one elbow on the back of the chair, the slippery material settled into the dips and planes of his torso. Honestly, he had no right blazing through life looking quite so… tempting. 

Crowley looked down at himself, gesturing lazily with one hand. “Trousers, jacket, waistcoat, and tie. Ish. ‘S close enough, innit?” He grinned. 

A rather pointed cough from his right reminded Aziraphale that Gabriel was unfortunately still there. 

“Ah yes. Crowley, this is my cousin, Gabriel.” Aziraphale said, gesturing between the two men. “Gabriel, this is Crowley, my prior engagement.” Crowley raised an amused eyebrow at that, while Gabriel’s face went very still, apart from the slight furrowing of his brow. 

“Gabe!” Crowley exclaimed. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you!”

“All good, I hope?” Gabriel said, almost on autopilot as he cast a wary eye over Crowley. 

“Well, you know Aziraphale, he can always find something nice to say, can’t he?” Crowley grinned. 

Aziraphale couldn’t take his eyes off of Crowley. The sense of barely contained mischief was back, and Aziraphale was finding it rather thrilling. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, leaning in, his voice low, “you lead me to believe that your prior engagement was a date.” 

Aziraphale finally dragged his eyes from the delectable vision in front of him to look at his cousin. “Oh, it was. Crowley and I were due to go for sushi together.” And perhaps the way he wiggled with delight at that wasn’t strictly necessary, but it happened anyway. “Thank you so much for your suggestion that I invite him along with us.”

Gabriel made a face that Aziraphale was very used to seeing. It was the sneer he made when he was disappointed, and mildly disgusted. Aziraphale found he didn’t mind it quite so much this time. In fact, he had never been so pleased to see it. 

“Gabriel, I know you don’t like sushi, but it is entirely possible for other people to enjoy it.” Aziraphale said, feeling rather bold tonight. Perhaps it was Crowley’s influence. 

“So… he’s… uh… you’re…um...” Gabriel blustered. 

“Gay? As a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide, Gabriel. Didn’t you know?” And that was never something he would have been bold enough to say before, but by jove, did it feel good. 

“I thought you were just… English.” Gabriel said weakly. 

“Is this a problem, dear cousin?” Aziraphale saw Crowley shifting in his chair out of the corner of his eye. 

“No, no, not at all.” Gabriel said quickly. “Although, Aziraphale, if I’d have known you were that lonely I could have pulled some strings, set you up with someone more your style. You didn’t have to resort to…” Gabriel waved a hand in Crowley’s direction, and Crowley burst out laughing. 

Aziraphale jumped slightly, a nervous laugh escaping his lips as he took in the magnitude of Crowley’s mirth. Crowley must have caught sight of his lost expression, waving his hand as he attempted to get himself back under control. 

“He thinks you hired me, Angel. Your cousin actually thinks you’ve paid me to be here!” Crowley gasped out, laughing again as Aziraphale realised the implications. He didn’t seem to find it as funny as Crowley. “Shit Gabriel, I’d guessed you were on the denser end of the two proverbial planks, but have you never actually looked at your cousin? He’s incredibly smart, bloody gorgeous, and just enough of a bastard to make life interesting. Literally couldn’t pay me to stay away.” 

Aziraphale had considered that Crowley had the potential to make this quite an eventful evening, but he hadn’t expected to be swooning quite this early into the proceedings. 

“Well then, Mr Crowley, what  _ do  _ you do for a living?” Gabriel asked and Aziraphale saw the lazy smirk that settled on Crowley’s face. 

“Acquisitions.” Crowley said. “Mostly I find rare and beautiful things for other people. Occasionally I keep the good ones for myself.” And Aziraphale was fairly sure that Crowley had been looking at him as he said that, but he couldn’t be sure with those infernal sunglasses. 

Oh there was no doubt about it, this man was nothing but trouble. In scandalously tight trousers. 

* * *

Crowley knew he was pushing his luck, but he’d gone in hard with his dramatic entrance, and the look on Aziraphale’s face when he saw him had made Crowley foolish enough to chance a kiss on his cheek. The way the angel was looking at him now, though, was making his neck tingle. Anyone would think he’d hung the stars from that expression. That was the kind of expression that made him do really stupid things, he’d learnt. 

Fortunately a waiter appeared before he’d had any less-than-stellar ideas and handed him a menu. He looked at it for a moment, rolling his eyes behind the privacy of his sunglasses. 

“Well, seeing as you’ve started without me I’ll skip straight to mains, and really, Gabe, don’t they teach you any manners in America? Sheesh. Eh I suppose I’ll juuust haaaaave… whatever he’s having.” Crowley handed the menu back to the waiter with a nod towards Aziraphale. “Oh, and… hmm, probably too early for cocktails... I’ll have a large glass of wine. Whatever you recommend with the dish.” 

Crowley waited until Gabriel had taken a sip of his own drink, a tall glass of what looked like nothing more exciting than sparkling water. 

“So, Angel, thrown any more men out after you’ve had them pressed up against your bookshelves recently?” 

Gabriel rapidly inhaled and then forcefully exhaled his drink, and Crowley was fairly sure some of it came out of his nose. It took a lot of willpower to not laugh as Gabriel’s eyes began to water from the bubbles. 

Aziraphale had gone a very interesting shade of pink and was glaring at him in a way that looked completely artificial. 

“No dear, you alone hold that honour.” Aziraphale said, spearing his lone bean and placing it delicately in his mouth. 

“Can’t imagine what the other customers must have thought.” Crowley added as his wine arrived. White. Not his favourite, but it would do.

“The shop was  _ open?!”  _ Gabriel spluttered, looking slightly pale. 

“I know, amazing right?" Crowley smirked. "Bloody miracle, with his hours. Anyway, I only came in by chance. Got me your name though, didn’t it Angel?” 

“And I, yours, you foul fiend. Although it was quite some effort to go to when you could have just asked. Withholding it from me in that manner was entirely unnecessary.” Aziraphale replied, the blush having cooled somewhat as he dabbed his mouth. Crowley was fairly sure he saw a grin being stifled behind the napkin. 

“What? And miss out on seeing just how high up there you could get it?” Aziraphale had to bite his lip and Crowley decided he would do it for him as soon as he possibly could. 

Gabriel snapped. “Look, I don’t know what you… are into, but where I come from we don’t discuss this sort of thing in company. Let alone over the dinner table!” 

“You don’t discuss books?” Aziraphale asked, doing a very good impression of someone thoroughly confused. “I was being careless as I was shelving them and Crowley arrived just in time to catch one of my first edition Wildes as it was falling. I had to put it back where there was more space, much higher up. The nearest space was above his head, and, being of a naturally awkward disposition, he declined the opportunity to move. I had to reach over him. Hardly my fault, you see.”

“What did you think we were talking about, Gabe?” Crowley asked innocently, enjoying just how uncomfortable Gabriel was looking, and the way his eye twitched at the shortening of his name. Gabriel was spared from having to elaborate, however, as the starter plates were cleared and the main course arrived. 

Crowley looked down at his plate. “Is that it?” He asked. “Surely there must be more. Does the rest of it come on a separate plate?” 

Gabriel seemed to have regained his mental footing, giving Crowley an apologetic look. 

“I’ve been trying to encourage Aziraphale here to embrace moderation. The dishes here are delicious, and don’t encourage excess.” 

Aziraphale looked down at his plate with its meagre offering, and Crowley saw his face drop. 

“What did you sssay?” Crowley asked in tones as sharp as an icicle. 

“Well I’m sure a man such as yourself,” Gabriel’s eyes flicked down his torso, “can understand the need to monitor what you consume.” 

The time had come to ramp up the stupid, it seemed. Crowley stood up. 

“Angel? We’re leaving.” He said, voice perfectly calm as Aziraphale’s head snapped up to look at him. 

Gabriel put down his cutlery and stared at them both. 

“Come on, Angel. Not going to sit here and listen to you be talked about like that. Don’t care who he thinks he is.” Crowley held out a hand towards a very shocked looking Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked between the two of them. 

“Are you really going to listen to him, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked, a condescending expression on his face. “Do you really think he’s right for you? He’s not really our sort. Just look at him.” 

“At least we can agree on that. Definitely nothing like you, Gabe.” Crowley said, taking off his sunglasses and reaching deep for his greatest act of twinkling-blue-eyes-induced stupidity yet. “Me or him, Angel. Who’s it going to be?” 

Crowley could feel his heart in his mouth, beating out a heavy rhythm. Oh fuck this was way beyond stupid, and yet he’d never felt a rush like it. But Aziraphale hadn’t looked at him yet. He was still looking at his arsehole cousin and for all his Devil-may-care attitude, Crowley could feel the moment slipping through his outstretched fingers. 

Gabriel began to look smug as Aziraphale didn’t move, and the message was clear. That had been the wrong question to ask and he’d pushed too far.

Crowley was stunned at just how much it hurt. 

* * *

  
Aziraphale couldn’t think. He couldn’t turn his head. He was frozen looking at Gabriel’s smug face. When he left that note for Crowley he had no idea it would come to this, but now it had and he would have to deal with it. He looked at Gabriel, really looked at him, and the realisation that he might be stuck with that expression, those snide comments, for the rest of his life spurred him into action. Crowley barely knew him, and yet he seemed to know him better than Gabriel already. It was Crowley who had shown him more kindness than he perhaps deserved, not least turning up here to rescue him and, apparently, sweep him off his feet in the process. 

Well. Temptation accomplished.

His choice was clear. He managed to turn his head just in time to see Crowley shove his sunglasses back on his face and weave through the tables towards the door, and probably out of his life. 

Well that would most certainly not do. 

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale said, rising to his feet. “Next time you grace these shores, please do not call me. I fear I shall be otherwise engaged.” 

At the sound of Gabriel’s rising protests, Aziraphale hurried towards the door. He made it outside just in time to see Crowley disappear around the light stone building at the end of the street. 

He was going to have to run, wasn’t he?

* * *

  
Crowley let his legs carry him down the road and around the corner before he stopped. He’d done some spectacularly stupid things in his life, most recently because of a certain angel, but he’d really excelled himself this time. Fuck, it hurt so much. Much more than he would have expected if he’d even stopped to consider that of course Aziraphale would choose his cousin, his fucking  _ family, _ over an idiot like him _.  _ On what planet did Crowley ever think Aziraphale would take his offered hand? Fucking idiot. 

Crowley leaned against the nearest wall, huddling himself into the alcove with its black, metal shutter, legs splayed in front of him.  Tipping his head back and shutting his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath that tasted of dust and fumes, startling at just how shaky it sounded. He focused on the sounds around him, the chatter of people on a night out, footsteps and laughter, engines on the main road, and the sound of running feet coming out of the street he’d just left. 

“Oh... Fuck!” Someone exclaimed. And his mind must be playing tricks on him because that sounded a lot like… But Aziraphale didn’t seem the type to swear. Crowley opened his eyes, focusing on the figure in the middle of the road. _Can't be..._

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called, turning frantically as he searched up and down the street. 

“Here, An- Aziraphale.” Crowley croaked, wondering when he got so pathetic that he was still going to take anything he could get from this man. This man he barely knew, if he was really honest. But oh did he want to.

Aziraphale spun around, seeing him hunched against the black, hiding in the shadows, and flashed him one of his smiles that felt like sunrise. 

“Oh! Thank god I’ve caught up with you.” Aziraphale said, hurrying over to him.

“Look, ‘s fine, you don’t have to explain.” Crowley tried, hoping to avoid what was coming and hating the way his voice sounded so broken. 

“I rather think I do, my dear.” Aziraphale said as he came to stand in front of Crowley, putting himself between Crowley’s splayed legs, and that  _ really  _ wasn’t helping. “You chose the wrong moment to finally stop getting in my way, you see. So this time I was forced to follow you. And I did follow you, Crowley, and I intend to carry on following you, for as long as I can keep up.”

Crowley blinked. 

“Please take off your sunglasses my dear, I would really like to see your eyes.” 

Crowley took them off, tucking them in his jacket pocket. The sunrise smile came back, so much brighter now it wasn’t obscured by darkened glass. Crowley had no idea what to feel at all this, but he was starting to think whatever this was, it might run a bit deeper than a standard crush. 

“You chose Gabriel.” He heard himself say, his mouth twisting at the words. Aziraphale’s face pinched in anguish, and Crowley was already leaning into the hand at his cheek before he even realised it was there. The streetlight was making Aziraphale’s hair do the whole glowy thing again, and Crowley was drowning in the soft grey that the low lighting gave his eyes. 

“Oh, Crowley, dearest, no. I didn’t. I just needed a moment to think. You know  these old things, they do need a bit of time...” 

“You…” Crowley tried, his eternal optimism peeking out through the fog of misery clouding his head, his eyes locked onto Aziraphale’s. “...me?” 

“You.” Aziraphale replied, holding his gaze. “You, who has crashed into my life through a ridiculous series of what I’m still not fully convinced were coincidences, and proceeded to hang around doing nothing for the state of disarray. You, who has accepted that disarray like no other person ever has, especially not Gabriel. You, Crowley, who, when I asked for your help to get Gabriel to disown me, went one better and showed me how to disown him instead.”

The stars look was back, and Crowley was starting to feel like he might just be able to hang them, if Aziraphale asked him to. But right now Crowley just desperately hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t stop the way his thumb was running over his cheekbone. Probably the only thing holding him up right now was the metal shutter digging into his back.

“Crowley, did you… did you mean the things you said? Back there?” Aziraphale asked, his smile dipping slightly. Crowley didn’t even have to think about it. 

“All of it. And I sure as shit won’t put up with anyone talking about my Angel the way your douchebag cousin was.” Crowley replied, never more sure of anything in his life.  _ Shit. ‘My Angel’. Getting a bit ahead of yourself here.  _

“Why do you do that?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head slightly as he gave Crowley a wide-eyed, curious look. “Why do you call me ‘Angel’?”

Crowley looked at him, shining gently in the street light, pale clothes and hair standing in stark contrast to the general grime of the city. He shrugged. 

“Cos’s what you are. Beautiful, bastard angel. Rescuing lost souls from the hellish depths of the London Underground and watching over them when they’re stupid enough to fall asleep on your sofa. My guardian angel. Too good for the likes of us. Plus you literally light up whatever room you’re in, you know that?” 

Aziraphale beamed, proving Crowley’s point quite successfully. 

“Oh Crowley, you know, for someone who tries so hard to be so standoffish, you’re actually rather ni-”

“No. Nu-uh. Don’t you dare.” Crowley cut him off, shaking his head and dislodging Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley was not about to stand (well, lean) here and have his meticulously honed character assassinated like this. Not even for shoulders that looked like they could carry at least three of him. 

“You are. You’re a goo-” Aziraphale tried, grinning.

“Shuddup. Am not.” Crowley brought his feet back under him and stood tall, narrowing his eyes. 

“You’re kind, and lovely, and better than you-”

Crowley groaned and stopped him the only way he could think of in that moment. 

A swift press of his lips. 

Well, it was meant to be swift but once they touched he kind of got stuck and forgot he was supposed to pull away. Aziraphale’s lips were so ridiculously soft, and he was so warm. There was that coconut smell again, mixed with something else that seemed to crawl under Crowley’s skin and take up permanent residence. Combined, it turned out to be the most effective way he’d ever found to shut his brain off. 

For once, he didn’t even think about Piña Coladas. 

Shit, if this is what kissing Aziraphale felt like then… Better not think about that now. 

Someone laughed further down the street, a sudden burst of sound that broke through Crowley’s daze and sent him jerking back as he realised that apparently he was going all out on the stupid tonight. 

“Shit, sorry, wasn’t supposed to do that yet. Uh, sushi. Sushi was meant to be first. Yes? If you still want? Promised you sushi. Fish and rice and seaweed and… whatnot.” Ok so he wasn’t completely panicking, but it was getting pretty close. Especially as Aziraphale hadn’t moved. 

“Angel?” Crowley asked, not even caring how tightly strung his voice sounded. Aziraphale’s eyes opened, refocusing onto his. Then they narrowed, a calculating look that felt like it was inspecting Crowley’s very soul and a few of his less impressive moments resurfaced. 

But he didn’t get very far with that, because Aziraphale put a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in with a firm grasp that left no room for argument. Before he knew what was happening he’d been dragged off balance and Aziraphale was… well Crowley had never thought he’d ever use the word ‘soundly’ to describe kissing before, but that was exactly what Aziraphale was doing. Quite thoroughly. 

Crowley’s hands flew up to try and keep himself on his feet and he ended up with his arms wrapped awkwardly around Aziraphale’s waist as he stumbled into him. For a horrible moment he thought they were going to end up in the road, but Aziraphale didn’t even flinch. 

This was not how Crowley had expected this to go. He was supposed to sweep Aziraphale off his feet with romance and charm. He was supposed to be suave and just the right amount of scandalous. He was supposed to be the one to lean in, to take charge and fuck a duck Aziraphale was pressing his tongue into Crowley’s mouth and Crowley had to accept he was very much not in charge of this situation. He also had to admit that he was enjoying the turn around considerably more than he would have expected. Why on Earth he’d ever thought he’d be in control of anything where Aziraphale was concerned, he had no idea. Furthermore, why had he even wanted to? 

Then a stout hand found its way to the very lowest of what could be considered Crowley’s back, pulling their bodies together, and Crowley stopped thinking altogether. 

Some time later (Crowley was hazy on the details) Aziraphale pulled back suddenly. It took a few moments for Crowley to register the jeering and the bashful look on his Angel’s face.

“Fuck ‘em” Crowley whispered, unable to take his eyes off Aziraphale’s face. Then he smiled and Crowley was learning to be wary of that particular smile. 

“And why would I do that when I have a far more enticing option right in front of me?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at him through his lashes. 

“Bloody hell, Aziraphale, you don’t do anything by halves, do you?” Crowley spluttered. “I was all set to wine and dine you, possibly even woo you if I find out what that involves, but here you are, jumping straight into the bedroom talk.”

“My dear, I believe I was up front about my intentions from the very start.” Aziraphale retorted. “But if you would prefer to take me out to dinner first, then by all means, woo away.” 

Aziraphale stepped back. Crowley grabbed his hand as it slipped from around his neck. It wasn’t really a conscious decision, he just couldn’t imagine not touching Aziraphale now he knew what it felt like. 

“Well, I promised you sushi, so sushi it’s gonna be.” Crowley said, determined that he would do this right. 

Tucking Aziraphale’s hand into the crook of his elbow, Crowley began to stroll away, delighting in the feel of Aziraphale’s arm in his as they walked side by side. 

Aziraphale made a little contented hum and leant into him. 

_ Goddammit. _ He was going to have that look on his face, wasn't he? Crowley risked a glance, just a subtle sweep of his eyes to the right, a minor turn to his head. All that gained was Aziraphale’s kiss landing on the corner of his mouth rather than his cheek as he was dragged unceremoniously sideways and down for it. 

Crowley realised that this was what it was going to be like with Aziraphale. A lifetime of being ever so slightly off balance in the best possible way. Frankly, it sounded brilliant. 

Hang on, he'd just thought ‘lifetime’... 

“Thank you so much for this evening.” Aziraphale said as they walked. 

“Nope. Don’t start that again or we’ll never make it to sushi.” Crowley warned. Not that he minded the thought of spending the evening snogging the bejeezus out of Aziraphale, but he wanted to do this right and that was going to require a hands off approach. 

"Would that be so bad?" Aziraphale asked as they reached  Piccadilly Circus and Crowley realised one very important thing was missing. 

“Crowley, do you know where we are actually going?” Aziraphale asked.

“Fuck knows!” Crowley laughed. “Don’t even eat sushi. Was mostly following you.” 

“Well in that case…” Aziraphale flashed Crowley a smile that Crowley really hoped was his one, mostly for the spark of mischief in the corners of it. Letting Aziraphale take the lead, Crowley was so busy watching his face and drinking in the sight of him that he didn’t pay too much attention to where they were going in such a hurry until they stopped. 

He looked up at a very dark, very closed, and very familiar shop. 

“I thought we could order in.” Aziraphale said, as he took the keys out of his pocket. “Just out of curiosity, what does the ‘J’ stand for?” He asked. 

Crowley looked back down at him from where he’d been staring up at the windows above the shop. He was rapidly trying to work out where this evening was going and coming to one spine tingling conclusion. 

“‘S just ‘J’, really.” He responded, half distracted. “Why d'you want to know that now?”

Aziraphale pulled him into the shop by the tie. “Well, I thought it only sensible to get your  _ full  _ name, seeing as I intend to feel up a good deal more than your leg this time, my dear.”

At this point, Crowley would normally make some sort of inarticulate sound, defaulting to ‘ngk’ if another option wasn’t available, but he found his mouth quite happily otherwise occupied.

Resigning himself to his fate, Crowley accepted the fact that he was thoroughly outwitted, incredibly aroused, and hopelessly in… well. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to say those three words when technically they hadn’t even made it to their first date yet. 

He said it on their sixth. Aziraphale beat him to it. The bastard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I get a wahoo?


End file.
